


Lavellan's Knight

by OceanTheSoulRebel



Series: Knight's Favor [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Clan Lavellan death, Dorian Pavus being a snarky bitch, F/M, Grief, Mourning, Mutual Pining, Other relationships - Freeform, basically a lot of "it's complicated", but we get quality Sera time!, sexy stuff, wow these guys are bad at this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-13
Updated: 2018-03-27
Packaged: 2019-03-17 14:30:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 28,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13660950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OceanTheSoulRebel/pseuds/OceanTheSoulRebel
Summary: Shortly after settling into Skyhold, a life-altering decision teaches Elara Lavellan that sometimes the best path at the moment isn't the right one. Seeking solace from her grief, she turns to the only arms she wants, the now-distant Warden who has pledged not to love her.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has a brief section of sui* ideation. It's a few sentences long and not super graphic (in my opinion), but I want you to know about it upfront. 
> 
> Other chapter-specific CWs: blood mention (drops), minor character death (Clan Lavellan).
> 
> Beta'd by the lovely [marquis1305](http://archiveofourown.org/users/marquis1305/pseuds/marquis1305), [Wannabekurt](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Wannabekurt/pseuds/Wannabekurt), and [Wonderdyke](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Wonderdyke/pseuds/Wonderdyke). Go give them some love!
> 
> Translations for the Elvhen words are in each chapter's end of chapter notes, so make sure to read those if you're interested!

Ambassador Josephine had called an emergency council meeting in the late hours of the night and insisted on their immediate arrival; the request left no time for the Inquisitor to change from her nightdress, leaving her to run to the war room in her long tunic and slippers. Josephine’s face was a mask of thinly-veiled grief when Elara entered the war room, the woman’s usually well-polished look abandoned.

Her obvious disarray planted a seed of worry in Elara’s heart.

The brazier threw its light haphazardly around the room as the remaining members arrived. Elara’s sense of dread grew as they swept into the room. The spymaster, Leliana, did not meet her eyes despite their mutual friendship. In similar respect, Commander Cullen—a paragon of composure under pressure at any other time—looked away from her and physically recoiled as if slapped when the letter was read aloud for the first time.

> _“Ambassador Montilyet, I regret that my help for your Dalish allies came too late to be of use. By the time my forces arrived in the area—”_

Josephine choked on a sob as she read and cleared her throat with a short pause.

> _“—Clan Lavellan had been scattered or killed, and there seems little left of their people. I understand your Inquisitor must be feeling the loss of her clan. Please accept these gifts and my promise of future help whenever it is necessary. Yours, Duke Antoine of Wycome.”_

Josephine hadn’t finished reading the last lines before Elara flung herself across the vast table at her, fingers clutching at the empty air between them.

“You were supposed to protect them!” Her anguished words rang out in the vast chamber, echoing on the stone walls. “You were supposed to help them!”

Cullen swept around the table and pulled her from its surface, sharp iron map markers following in her wake. The elvhen woman was absolutely dwarfed by his size but he still struggled to hold her. “Inquisitor, please—”

“Don’t you ‘Inquisitor’ me, _Commander_.” The sharp reminder of her rank above him was diminished by his arms wrapping around her, the silverite vambraces digging into her skin to trap her flailing limbs at her side. Wild eyes swept over the other two women and she howled. “The humans were supposed to save them!” Elara strained against Cullen’s authoritative grip, kicking her slippered feet in Josephine's direction, needing to hurt, to be hurt, to—

“I’m sorry,” came Josephine’s hollow voice. The woman shrunk under Elara’s seething gaze and looked away.

“No. You don’t get to be sorry, Ambassador,” Elara spat out. She sorely wished Cullen would let her go so she could leap across the table and knock the noble ambassador to the ground, to bite and claw and kick until the woman felt what she felt. “Clan Lavellan trusted in the Inquisition, and I took one of your many lessons in diplomacy to heart: I let the know-nothing _shem’len_ deal with their problem themselves, at your suggestion. I asked them to send troops instead of moving our own forces because we wouldn’t want to provoke some noble arse’s ire, at _your_ insistence. No, you do not get to be sorry, Lady Montilyet. You have no idea what that means.”

“Inquisitor, that’s enough!” Cullen’s arms clenched around her, bringing stars to her vision as she struggled for breath against his breastplate. He hauled them against the nearest wall, his back pressed to the stone as he snaked his booted foot across her ankles to control her thrashing. “That’s _enough_ , Elara,” he hissed, his breath fanning hotly over the tapered edge of her ear.

Elara growled as Leliana led the sobbing ambassador from the war room, neither of the women meeting her eyes as they passed. He held her for a moment longer before loosening his grip and she jumped out of his arms, prowling towards the massive table that monopolized the meeting space.  

“My lady—”

“Don’t, Cullen,” she snarled. Elara rubbed feeling back into her body as she paced, tracing the blooming welts his vambraces had carved into her arms. Her ribs ached as she strode across the room, putting the table between them.

“Elara Lavellan, look at me!” His shout carried the heavy weight of his authority, of the years of training soldiers and Templars, and she unsuccessfully fought the urge to obey. Cullen’s face was dark, his sharp features twisted into a stormy mask as he stared her down, amber eyes shadowed in the flickering firelight. “Elara,” he said again—quieter, but no less demanding.  

A broken sob escaped her as she buckled against the edge of the table. Pressing her palms against her face, her nails dragged over the lines of her _vallaslin_ , the tattoo her last tie to her clan.

_Gone._

Metal clanged against the stone floor before Cullen moved behind her; he swept her into his arms again, his chest bare of his heavy cuirass and warm where he pressed against the thin fabric of her nightdress. His hands captured her wrists once more and drew them away from her face,the actions gentler than before—no longer the professionally distanced leader of her army, but someone closer, kinder.

Elara felt the curls of his tousled hair brush against her ear as he whispered to her—useless words, senseless noise in the storm, but he held fast, anchoring her to the world around them. Her hands curled into fists but he held tight as she thrashed, once, twice, before sagging against the strength of his arms.

 _“Ir abelas, ir abelas, ir abelas.”_ The words fell from her lips like lead, heavy and dark between the stone walls of the room.

“I’m sorry, too,” he murmured into her hair. Cullen’s thumbs rubbed tentative circles against the thin skin of her wrists as she leaned on him quietly, his movements turning more confident as they watched the shadows of the room flicker.

He held her long after she stilled in the heat of his embrace. “We, ah, you should get to bed, Inquisitor. I’m sure you must need to rest…” his voice trailed off behind her and he sighed into her hair. “I’ll clean up here.” He pulled them to their feet, hands lingering before falling to his sides.   

She didn’t look back as she walked to the heavy door, smearing tears from her cheeks and snatching the letter from the war table as she passed.

“You don’t have to be alone right now, in this.”

She stilled at the sound of his voice and turned back to him.

Cullen’s jaw clenched in the firelight as he met her gaze, burning her with a raw heat in his eyes. “Come to me if you have need.” It was not a request, and his voice stirred a new sensation in her bones, molten and scorching within her.

There was a darkness to him that filled her mind as she exited the room, running through the Great Hall to her quarters.  

* * *

_“Clan Lavellan had been scattered or killed, and there seems to be little left of their people.”_

Elara reread the letter through the night and into the morning, barring the doors to her tower from entry. Duke Antoine of Wycome’s script was at odds with the words they delivered—flowing and delicate, thoughtful in their appearance despite their gravity.

 _You were too late, did too little,_ her inner voice whispered. _You abandoned them and left them to their fate._

“I should have been there.”

Hot tears dripped from her face to rain upon the creamy parchment.

“I should have done _more._ ”

Her hands trembled as her fingers swept over the page, tracing the Duke’s elegant rendering of her clan name. _Lavellan._

With one decision, she had doomed her people.

“I thought I did the right thing,” she insisted to the empty room. “It was supposed to be the right thing!” She shoved books and papers from her desk, scattering the parchment across the floor with frenzied kicks. In a frenzied rage she struck her hand on a wooden bookshelf and whirled to tear the tomes from their places, pulling the heavy structure to tumble to her feet.

Her breath came in raging pants as she turned about, seeking her next victim. With long strides she stalked to the wardrobe across the room, pulling its finely crafted drawers out and tossing the clothes from the oak interior. A keening wail tore from her throat as she began to pull down her armor from the attached stand, tossing her breastplate across the room, the polished silverite gleaming bleaky where it caught the early morning sunlight.

“I should have been there!”

She hurled her helm toward the tower’s staircase. Her hand closed around the familiar weight of her sword and she swung wildly, gouging deep marks into sturdy oak.

“They trusted me!”

The scream echoed as she slashed at the dark wood of the wardrobe until it lay in rough pieces at her feet.

Elara threw her sword across the room at her bed, unheeding of the clatter of the metal against the stone floor as she sank to the floor amongst the rubble. In a dissociated haze she sat there, unfeeling, unblinking, staring into the flickering flames in the fireplace opposite her bed.

She could see her clanmates, as clear as if they were before her. The face Keeper Deshanna would make when listening to the antics of the young ones, pained and amused all the same, her aged eyes crinkling kindly at their actions. The flare of magelight illuminating faces in the children’s tents as Liral, Deshanna’s apprentice, told stories of gods and monsters, teaching them the history of their Emerald Knights. The mournful expression her mother wore the day Elara had returned from her successful trial of the solo hunt, far earlier than anyone expected.

 _No, it is too much. I can’t bear to see you right now,_ Elara pleaded to the ghosts. She flinched as the scent-memory of the oak and alder trees leading to the Amaranthine coast filled the room, the wind whispering through her open balcony doors to play with the memory of leaves along the floor.

The dying fireplace across from her turned into a familiar pit nestled between the great aravels of her clan, waiting for the elvhen bodies to surround it and partake of its warmth. The light flickered as it reached her, the heat stopping short of her grasping hands. “I made a vow.to protect them.”

A sharp pain brought her back to her body when she clenched her fists, nails digging into skin torn raw and crimson from the rough leather grip of her sword. She watched the blood collect along the abrasions, fat drops sliding down the lines of her palms.

Her body ached as she stood, every muscle knotted and screaming. Her eyes darted to the larger of her balconies, the doors flung open to showcase the picturesque mountains touched with the growing morning light. _It would be too easy to join them,_ a treacherous voice called to her, filling her sight with the intricate and easily-scaled balustrade that topped the walls.

She took a step toward the balcony, then another, crossing the rug-laden floor in tiny, unconscious movements. Halfway to the doorway, a fluttering page captured her attention as it shifted in the breeze.

 _Blackwall._ It was a rough sketch of her and her dear friend during a bloody battle, back to back, glancing toward each other. It could have been any of the skirmishes they’d fought through—he was a capable fighter whom she relied upon, asking him to stay nearby when strength was needed—but the fierce look shared on paper shook her.

His face rendered in charcoal cut through the siren’s song of the balcony. Elara turned her back to the temptations whispered by the tower’s height and walked across the room, not caring to change or pull on proper boots before descending the stairs. In a dissociated calm, she wound her way through the labyrinthine halls of the keep and exited out into the dawn.

* * *

A noise roused him from his seat at the work table and he groaned, a low, pained sound. His sidewards glance told him it was just after dawn, the sunlight spilling with abandon across the barn floor. His knee hit the edge of the table and he cursed sharply, voice rough with sleep.

“Blackwall?”

He grumbled for a moment, nonsensical sounds as he came to consciousness. “Aye?” he answered, drawing his hands over his face.

It wasn’t the first time someone had found him in such a state, sleeping surrounded by his tools, the hammer and chisel not far from him. His fingers pulled away errant wood chips from his beard as he oriented himself to the waking world. A strangled noise brought his attention to his visitor, the elven woman unceremoniously leaning against the barn wall.

“Maker’s balls. Inquisitor!” He rose from the bench, knocking it over in his surprise.

“I’m sorry, I know we talked about things, that you said—” her voice cracked on a sob and she shoved a crooked finger in her mouth to stifle the noise.

He was stunned by the sight of her, hair loose about her shoulders and clad in what was certainly her nightwear, staring at him with too-wide eyes. Her pale gown was spotted red with— _blood?_

Blackwall strode to her, glancing at the world beyond the barn. The marketplace awoke with shop owners calling out to each other. They had passed some point of no return.

“Let’s get you upstairs,” he offered through a dry mouth, placing his hand over the small of her back and leading her to the loft.

He guided her to the bundled haystacks he had arranged as a makeshift mattress, for the nights when the stone walls of his room in the keep closed in on him. Elara was so small without the bearings of her title drawn about her, without her suit of armor and sword. He was fascinated by the sight of her hair loose, such as he had never before seen—not even on all the occasions he’d journeyed with her across the lands of Thedas. Against his will the view of her hair cascading over her body seared itself into his soul.

“My lady, are you hurt?” His gaze scanned over her and he did his best to regard her professionally, not lingering over her body but searching for injuries. He found the faint blossoming of bruises over her arms, peeking out from under her long hair, and vestiges of scratches across her face that knotted his stomach. He could not determine the source of the blood spots over her abdomen, but she didn’t look to be freely bleeding. “Who did this to you?” he asked darkly.

She shook her head at the question. "I had to be restrained," she replied absently, cutting off his further questioning with a sharp wave of her hand. Blackwall’s gaze lingered on the long fingers that pushed a heavy lock of hair from her face, watching as she took his suggestion and arranged herself on the plush furs of his bed. Elara drew her limbs about her to rest her brow on her knees, and she looked so Maker-cursed lost his heart ached. Unsure of how to proceed, he settled next to her, careful not to touch.

“I know you don’t want, that we aren’t,” she started, the words running into each other and muffled by her nightdress. “I’m sorry for being here but I don’t know who else to turn to, Blackwall, I just. I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore.”

His hands clenched into tight fists on his thighs with the urge to hold her, to shelter her from whatever hurts that battered at her. “My lady, I—”

“Elara,” she interrupted, turning to meet his eyes. “None of this ‘Your Worship’ or ‘my lady’ business, not with you. I’m just…” She dropped her gaze to the floor. “Please, let me be me.”

He winced at the pain in her voice. “Elara,” he murmured gently, rolling the soft syllables over his tongue, the intimacy wrong but not unwanted. “Then call me Thom.”

He stilled as the words tumbled unexpectedly from his lips, jarring his tenuous inner peace with the memories of the clash of swords and the screams of the dead. He had gone years without that name—shielding himself behind his mask, never expecting to reveal this chink in his armor—but here he was, the words thick in his throat. “My family called me... Thom.”

“Serrah Gordon Thom Blackwall, then, Grey Warden of Ferelden.”

He grit his teeth at her declaration of his name, worn and ragged in his ears. _Wrong._ “And you, _Messere_ Elara Lavellan,” he emphasized her rank above him, “Inquisitor of the most noble Inquisition of Thedas. What a pair we are.” He regretted the words as soon as he had spoken them and watched as she hid her face from him once more.. “My—Elara,” he corrected himself, “tell me what’s wrong.”

He almost thought she didn’t hear him, and the words sat unasked on his tongue again before she finally spoke. “Clan Lavellan is dead. They trusted me, I trusted the Duke of Wycome, and they were slaughtered for my inaction.”

Thom would distinctly remember a world before and after this declaration: before Elara Lavellan—one of the strongest, kindest souls he had ever known—had come to him with her life torn asunder, and after, mourning in a ramshackle barn loft and hiding from the weight of the world. She had spoken the words plainly, simply, a statement of fact, and he sat in stunned silence as she broke into tears. A long string of curses pulled from his lips instinctively, the several layers of blasphemy drawing her from hiding.

“Blackwall, Thom, please—please hold me.” She stared at him with her too-wide eyes, her fingers reaching for him but not touching, some invisible wall between them.

 _She is the Inquisitor and you are nothing,_ a familiar inner voice hissed, present whenever she drew near, but he could deny her nothing in this moment. Against the screaming of his sense of self-preservation he hauled her against his chest, drawing her into his lap and wrapping his arms around her. Elara clasped her fingers at the nape of his neck, crying into his shoulder.

 _Andraste’s tits,_ he swore to himself. He could feel her warmth through the fabric of his tunic, the contact burning into his skin. Her hands accidentally pulled at his long hair and he had to deliberately tear his mind away from the heady path it threatened to wander.

“Tell me.” He murmured his words into her hair, dedicating her scent to memory without a thought—lightly perfumed with vanilla and woodsmoke, the sweetest fire he’d ever known. _It suits her,_ he thought. He focused on her words as she sobbed through the story, running his hand over the long lines of her back, ignoring the sorrow that he knew followed them.

* * *

 

Elara cried until she was finally spent, limp and lifeless in his arms. At some point they had fallen against the furs; he had tried, valiantly, to arrange himself more appropriately to her side, but she nestled herself easily against his chest, hands clutching at his shoulders. Whenever Thom would meet her gaze, she was lost in some middle distance to which he could not follow—so he simply held her, skimming his hand over her back comfortingly. The sun had moved over the keep, shadows announcing the midday, but they laid there together quietly, unmoving and uncaring, lost in the world of her grief.

“I was Lavellan’s Emerald Knight,” she finally said, breaking the silence.

He stirred at her words. “I didn’t know the Dalish had knights.”

“We do—did.” He closed his eyes against the pain her correction wrought, feeling her shudder against him. “The others don’t know about me, they think I’m… I don’t know what they think. Maybe a hunter or something.”

“What was it like? Like a chevalier?” He thought of the noble knights of Orlais, glinting in their golden armor, and frowned slightly at the image of her in that useless frippery. Those men and women were excellent fighters but had nothing on what he’d seen of her prowess in the field.

“Like the Emerald Knights of old, protecting our people from those who would harm us, acting with the Keeper as an arbitrator between us and the humans. I was the leader of the hunters, our fighters. Mediator and champion of the clan.”

He growled, knowing exactly where this train of thought was going. “Elara, you couldn’t have known.”

“I swore an oath, Thom. You of all people—pledging your life to defend against the Blight—should know what that means: duty first. My life was theirs, and I wasn’t there to defend them. I should have been.”

She had been stuck on the sentiment for hours, and he had a distinct feeling it had worried at her long before she arrived at the barn.

“You did what you could with what you had, in pursuit of the greater good for us all, and somehow this came about. You are not responsible.” That those words could easily be turned to himself was not lost on him. He pressed on, before he could entertain another day dwelling on that pivotal moment of his past. Crooking a finger under her chin, Thom tilted her face to capture her gaze. “It will only kill you to dwell on the _could have beens_ and _should haves,_ and trust me when I say I would know. The right decision doesn’t always end well, despite our intentions, and only the Maker or the Creators know why.”

Her lips trembled at his careful reply before she fell back to his chest. “I wish I had been there.”  The words were whispered softly in twisted prayer as she curled her fingers in the fabric of his tunic.

The utterance stabbed at him like a knife. Splaying his hands across her back, his fingers curved into the hollows of her shoulder blades to hold her close.

“I may be a selfish old man but I’m glad you weren’t out there with them,” he said roughly. “Too many people need you. Too many people lo—” he caught his treacherous tongue before it spilled further secrets against his will. “Too many people rely on you,” he tried again, “rely on the order you bring, on the promises you make, on the paths you forge. You are the sole light in this chaotic world and, holy or not, you are a miracle to observe. We need you.” His last words were a whisper, trailed by the unspoken: _I need you._

They could never be said. She was the Inquisitor, the Herald of Andraste, perhaps the last good thing in this world turned upside down, and he would never be—could never be—worthy of her.

* * *

He held her until she fell asleep, waiting for her long, slow breaths before extracting himself from the bed to dress in a fresh outfit. A familiar glint of gleaming metal stalked through the cobblestones of Merchant’s Way and caught his eye through the open windows of the barn.

Blackwall tamped down the sense of panic that welled in his gut at the sight, recognizing the determined stride of his incoming visitor. _We’re all adults here,_ he thought crossly as he descended the staircase. _No one has done anything wrong._ The knowledge did little to calm his guilty conscience.

To have Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast come at you was to watch the mighty hand of the Maker Himself mete out divine justice, and woe be unto those caught under her sword.

He moved quickly to catch his newest visitor just before the barn. “Good day, Seeker.”

She gave a slight bow of her head, the sun catching on the polish of her cuirass under her tabard. “Warden Blackwall. Might I have a moment?”

“Of course.” He walked out of the shade of the open barn and urged her further toward the nearby stables, as private as he could find this close to the busy market.

Cassandra nearly shook with an unspent energy, the way she did the night before battle. He had seen it before and greatly respected her enthusiasm, but it was unnerving to see it directed toward his person.

“I am looking for the Inquisitor,” she said tersely, lines of frustration etched into her face. “She has not been seen today, and I worry that she’s missing.” The woman’s teeth snapped shut in agitation, her flinty gaze looking away. “Have you seen her? It seems she had a difficult night, and the council cannot find her around the keep.”

Thom briefly considered the wisdom of lying to the Seeker of Truth in order to protect Elara’s privacy. “She’s here,” he replied instead, “and she’s sleeping. It’s been a rough night.”

“Thank the Maker,” the woman sighed. She pinched the bridge of her nose, her short black hair briefly obscuring her eyes. “I was so worried. Her room is in quite a state of disrepair and I thought the worst.” She shrugged impotently with a huff. “I am glad she’s safe.”

He nodded. “You’re a good friend, Seeker,” Blackwall affirmed gruffly.

They stood for a moment and he watched the realization wash across her face as she registered the implications of his admission. Cassandra leveled him with a wary look. “She is here, in your loft?”

The ice of her words all but slipped down his spine and he bristled at her sudden change of tone. “It’s not _my_ anything,” he deflected, “but yes, she’s here—a little worse for wear, considering the news.” He shuffled under her penetrating gaze, crossing his arms over his chest. “If it gets the council off her back for a day, I will even ensure she returns to her suite and rests. You need not be so suspicious on my account, Seeker. ”

She scoffed and rested her hands on her hips. “You left her on the battlements after swearing off a courtship before one could even be properly discussed, Ser Blackwall,” she replied dryly, “and I was the one to catch her immediately afterward. I am allowed to be as suspicious as I deem necessary, I think.”

Pursing his lips, Blackwall looked away. “That was not my proudest decision, I’ll admit.”

Her boot scuffed over the cobblestones, a subtle display of inner conflict he’d come to know after long months in her company. “You care for her. I’ve seen the way you look at her, the way you make a liar of yourself. I don’t particularly approve—we must stay focused on our fight—but I respect it.”

He didn’t look up at her but raised a surprised brow all the same. “Of all the words that could fall from your lips, Seeker, those are not ones I would expect—no offense intended.”

“Perhaps it is the effect of our resident storyteller and his penchant for flowery words infecting all around him.”

He glanced back at her, catching a small smile that drifted toward concern once more.

She huffed. “I worry, all the same. We all have our responsibilities, and while you made the admirable choice to join us, she does not have the luxury of such a decision. I pray that you do not affect her judgement as you did weeks ago.”

His eyes narrowed. “She’s not a tender-hearted maid, Seeker, we both know that.”

“No, but she is the head of the Inquisition; Inquisitor Lavellan has duties to her people here.”

“Duties that failed her people elsewhere,” he retorted stiffly.

Cassandra’s jaw clenched as she shifted on her feet, their tentative camaraderie evaporating like dew in the morning sun as he stood his ground under her withering gaze. “She is sworn to the Inquisition, Warden Blackwall. We must act for the greater good, not our own needs.” The seeker turned on her heel and quickly marched away, leaving as quickly as she had arrived.

He watched her as she made her way through the milling throng, no doubt on her way to destroy more targets in her training regime, undoubtedly imagining his likeness on their faces. He sighed and ran a hand through his beard. The honorable thing would be to escort Elara— _the Inquisitor_ —back to her suite and to offer her his detached companionship, his sword and shield, but he didn’t want to be honorable.

He wanted her, duties and inner demons be damned.

* * *

 

Thom could not say how many hours he spent at the top of the stair, sitting against the far wall of the loft where he watched Elara slumber. She looked comfortable nestled amongst the furs of his bed, his traitorous heart soaring with foolish possessiveness at the sight. The sun had shifted across the sky toward the eventide when he noticed the world around them once more.

He ran a hand over his face. Thom knew from experience that he could easily carry her, or wake her and escort her—with either option keeping his word to Seeker Pentaghast—but there would be no shortage of rumors flying about at the end of those journeys. Just as easily, he considered, he could continue to let her sleep in his bed…

Something deep within him agreed with that plan, and he knew that was not the one to choose.

Thom sighed and slowly made his way to her, watching the delicate rise and fall of her shoulders as she breathed. Kneeling at her side, he reached for her. “Elara,” he murmured, jostling the shoulder turned toward him. He tried again, shaking more insistently before dropping his hand. The woman was well and truly exhausted.

With a muttered curse he sat back on his ankles. His eyes traced the delicate lines of her tattoos, memorizing how they curved over the angles and hollows of her face. He could see the black ink sweep from her hairline down her throat from this angle, the coloring stark against her sun-bronzed skin as it disappeared under the neckline of her dress.

Thom rose to sit at the edge of the bed, curling the edges of the blanket around her. “Elara,” he called again, louder still, expecting and receiving no response. His fingers itched to learn the inky paths over her skin, to wander over those lines. _Where do they lead?_ he wondered, the image of her body laid bare before his exploratory touch setting his blood to race.

Instead he made himself useful, drawing her into his arms again; they fit together easily, as if it had been this way for years rather than long months of distant, then growing, admiration. He pushed the memory of her expression on the battlements from his mind as he carefully draped her arms about his shoulders, adjusting his hold on her.

A momentary hesitation had his gaze on her face once more. Dark circles spread like bruises under her eyes, evidence of months of late nights and early days, of hard travel and harder battles.  It made his heart ache. Even in such mournful circumstances, this was the most peaceful Thom had seen Elara in weeks, perhaps months.

“You deserve far better than a broken man in a broken barn,” he told her, his words earning no answer. Tucking the blanket closer around her, he began their journey toward her chambers, the proper place for such a woman.

It was still early evening as Thom made their way through the emptying Merchant’s Row and approached the outer courtyard, the area set aside for drills and instruction of the assembled army. Commander Rutherford issued instruction from the base of the first staircase leading to the Great Hall, working the soldiers ruthlessly through their routine. Thom fervently wished the man would keep his back turned to them as he skirted the courtyard toward the kitchens, seeking the service route toward the main keep.

His jaw twitched in irritation when the commander spotted them, immediately cutting a path toward them as they climbed the stairs to the kitchen.  He braced for the questions soon to follow.

“Ser Blackwall,” the commander called as he strode toward them, his steps too quick to be as casual as he wished to appear. “I’m glad you found her. We all were worried sick all day until Cassandra brought us word. Is she…?” Cullen’s eyes softened as they swept over Elara's face, her hair pillowed about her head in Blackwall's arms.

“She’s unharmed and asleep, so if you’ll help me through the door of the kitchens you’ll do us both a kindness.”

The terse words earned a suspicious gaze, Cullen shifting his amber eyes to Thom’s face with a furrowed brow. He extended a vambrace-clad arm toward them. “I can help her from here, Warden,” he offered coolly, jaw clenched. “I would hate to see her distract you from your work.”

Thom’s eyes narrowed at the sight of the metal arm guards, ignoring the barbed comment. _Was it you who hurt her?_ He wanted to snarl the words but he bit his tongue against the accusation. “No need to disrupt your own duties, Commander.” He turned to the nearby doorway. “If you would care to help me pass, it would be appreciated.”

“Of course.”

The commander walked the short distance beside him and pulled open the door.

“Thank you for finding the Inquisitor, Warden Blackwall.” Their eyes met again in a strained glance before Thom moved, making his way through the large kitchen. The door closed quickly behind him.

No one stopped him on his way through the halls to her tower suite, though he could hear the swelling murmurs of the gossips as he passed. His long legs made quick work of the stairs and in moments he was walking through the inner door of the suite and into the inner chamber.

The sight of the damage brought him up short.

“Cassandra hadn’t said—”

Thom took in the ruined furniture and strewn objects around the main room, the destruction at odds with her calm demeanor. Dodging discarded bits of armor and a shattered ink pot, he made his way to the bed.

She shifted in his arms, sliding against the fur but bringing warmth to his skin all the same as he bent to deposit her atop the soft mattress. A reflexive tightening of her arms around his neck kept them chest to chest against the bed.

“Blackwall,” she sighed, blinking up at him with sleep-laden eyes. “Stay?” Her fingers danced in the short hairs at his nape.

In another life he would have pressed her. He could imagine plying her with kisses until she forgot her grief, ignoring the reality around them as their focus narrowed only to each other. Body stirring against his will, his breath caught in his throat at the familiar dream made flesh in his arms. He slipped from her embrace and arranged the fur chastely around her, the imagery—and her request—promising to stay with him.

“Sleep, my lady.” He watched a flicker of disappointment flutter across her face before she relaxed, exhaustion taking her once more. His hand rose to brush her hair from her cheek, skimming lightly over her face to tuck the stray lock behind her ear. She sighed at his touch but did not wake, nuzzling into the fur blanket.  

Heart pounding in his chest, he turned and exited the tower, cursing himself anew on each and every stair.

* * *

 

Elara woke to the crackling of a fire and blood rushing in her ears, the familiar ache of a migraine pounding at her temples. She clenched her eyes against the flickering light, protesting consciousness. A heavy fur slid around her as she sat up, the scents of oak and hay tinged with lingering smoke perfuming the dense ursine hair.

“Thom,” she whispered, her fingers trailing paths through the fur.

She looked around, half-hoping to see his slumbering form on the nearby sofa but, like the bed beside her, it lay empty. Unbidden tears pricked at her eyes while she surveyed the room, remarkably well-ordered for her attempts to destroy it. A storm of shame overtook her as the memories from the last day rushed back. She had many apologies to make and just as many bridges to rebuild.

Her eyes wandered to the small table that sat alongside her bed, currently laden with a tray bearing a goblet and a pitcher of water, a small green philter tucked between them. A cautious sniff confirmed the scents of the healing herbs before she spilled the liquid into her dry mouth. She set the glass bottle back on the table and spied a letter, plucking it with curious fingers and breaking the familiar wax seal.

> _“My dearest confidante,_ amica mea _.”_

She read aloud, imagining the rich tones of the writer’s voice instead of her strangled notes. 

> _“For shame that you would stoop to destroying furniture without me! The next time you feel such an urge, send for me and we shall pair the destruction with the finest wines. You shall find your books in a_ proper _order, now that I’ve shelved them correctly, and I believe I have effectively wrangled your documents and other personal effects. I apologize that your clothes and accessories now live in crates. Some brute broke the wardrobe, you see, and destroyed the armor stand.”_

Elara could see Dorian’s feigned indignation in the fine script of his calligraphy.

> _“I’ll have you know your Warden called upon me—me! Scion of House Pavus!—to tidy your room. Your steward helped in this task, as well. I don’t know what it was that warranted such a response, but I am here as you need me. Call, and I shall be with you.”_

Tears slid down her face at the kind words and she dashed them along the back of her hand before continuing through the letter.

> _“Also worth noting, Warden Blackwall has chosen to sleep within Skyhold’s halls, ‘if you have need of him.' He explicitly forbade me to tell you that last morsel. Now you don’t have to trek to that dreadful barn to thank him, if you wanted to catch him one evening.”_

She chuckled through her tears. There was no love lost between Thom Blackwall and Dorian Pavus, two excellent men and even greater friends to her, but utter and complete foils to the other.

> _“Go to him and get this sorted out,_ amica _. No one deserves to linger in unhappiness.”_

She sighed at his order and clutched the letter to her chest, leaning back on her pillows and pulling the bear fur up to her face.

“I wish I could," she murmured into the blanket as the potion took its desired effect, soothing the pain in her temples and lulling her back to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter One Elvhen Translations, from [FenxShiral's](http://archiveofourown.org/users/FenxShiral/pseuds/FenxShiral) ["Project Elvhen: An Elvhen Lexicon"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3719848).
> 
>   * Ir abelas: I’m sorry, literally “very/much sorrow”
>   * Shem’len: Quick children, Derogatory slang for non-dalish. Used usually to refer to humans.
>   * Vallaslin: designs written in blood upon the face or body of the dalish, used to denote not only clan, but also the personal signature of that person, as well as the god within the elven pantheon that they have chosen as their patron.
> 

> 
> Comments and kudos are always appreciated! Thank you for reading!
> 
> Also crossposted on my tumblr, [Ocean-in-my-Rebel-Soul](ocean-in-my-rebel-soul.tumblr.com)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by the lovely [marquis1305](http://archiveofourown.org/users/marquis1305/pseuds/marquis1305), [Wannabekurt](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Wannabekurt/pseuds/Wannabekurt), and [Wonderdyke](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Wonderdyke/pseuds/Wonderdyke). Go give them some love!
> 
> Translations for the Elvhen words are in each chapter's end of chapter notes, so make sure to read those if you're interested!

The minstrel’s lute lifted over the din of the crowd as the evening fell outside the walls of Herald’s Rest, where Blackwall found himself considering the dwindling level of ale in his mug. Nestled at his usual table along the railing of the second level, he watched the people of Skyhold filter in from their day’s activities, filling the tavern with banter and casual laughter.

He sighed, taking another long drink. The earlier hours had seen no small amount of rumor about his trek with the Inquisitor in his arms. Gossip spread like wildfire, and Skyhold was not immune to its contagion. Intrigued eyes and half-hidden smiles followed him as he left her bedchamber, no doubt fueling whatever Game plagued the fortress.

Hopefully her isolation in her tower would spare her of their barbs.

“‘We must act for the greater good, not our own needs,’” he muttered under his breath, quoting the harsh words of Seeker Pentaghast from that afternoon. “Like anyone could forget.” Blackwall cradled his head in his palm and slumped quietly against the table.

Perhaps it was time to leave and return to his quiet life in Ferelden. _I could try to outrun the ghost of her beauty,_ he thought. The Inquisition had no shortage of strong warriors, and he might be able to salvage his pride—and his heart—back in the Hinterlands.  

He huffed at the idea. _Too late for that._ He had pledged to serve Elara Lavellan even before she had taken on the mantle of Inquisitor, their long conversations about the work of the Inquisition leading him to that choice. At the time it felt right _—_ he would be a right bastard not to jump at the opportunity to help fix the chaotic world _—_ but the feeling had grown beyond his control, thanks to her thoughtful leadership and company.

 _Stay and risk losing myself here, or run back to that empty life in Ferelden?_ It was a question he struggled with often in the last month, found most frequently at the bottom of a bottle of whisky or seemingly endless mugs of ale. Prior to her arrival that morning they had hardly spoken in almost a month, their interactions structured around war council meetings or buffered by another companion. He had deliberately kept his distance, and, until that day, she hadn’t bridged it.

“As it should be,” he sighed, draining the last of his ale and pushing the empty vessel away before gesturing for another. Blackwall shook his head, clearing the thoughts like cobwebs from a disused room. His eye caught on the sight of a blonde mop of hair moving through the crowded room, a familiar rogue cutting a path to his table and plunking into the chair opposite him.

She adjusted herself with a short laugh before wrinkling her nose, throwing up her hands in exasperation. “Ugh, I can’t stand to see you all mopey. You suck the joy right outta women with that look, you know, Beardy.”

“I do not, Fuzzyhead,” he replied. The server arrived with a fresh tankard and he took a pull from his mug as Sera placed her own order. He peered around the room over the rim of his drink, the familiarity of their game a comfort. “Dwarven redhead, behind you—she was making some rather impressive eyes as you walked up.”

His guest turned quickly to scan the room, the sharp points of her ears twitching as she faced him again. “Nah, I know that one. Not much into peaches, unfortunately.” She huffed indignantly, blowing the fringe of her bangs out of her face. “From the way she’s staring, looks like she’s more interested in what you can offer—wrinkly bananas and all.”

“Maker’s balls, Sera,” he laughed, covering the sound with a cough as one of the servers arrived with steaming bowls of stew and two mugs of ale. He pulled one of each to him at Sera’s insistence and slowly set to eating.

“Not the redhead? All right, leggy blonde then, near the door. Nice shape on that one, yeah?” Sera leered with an appreciative nod.

Blackwall slid a glance down toward the door and, true to Sera’s word, the qunari woman in question was lovely. He caught her eye and watched as a languid smile pulled her lips. Blackwall raised his mug to her with a salute and turned his attention back to his friend. “You’ve got good taste.”

Sera laughed, the sound carrying over the din of the tavern. “I meant for you, y’damn grizzly bear.” Her smile faded and she turned to her stew, eyes darting between the bowl and his face as she ate. “You’re too serious again, doing the broody thing. A change of pace would be good for you—or at least parts of you, I’d wager.”

He chuckled wryly and took a deep pull from his mug. “I’ll be fine, but thanks for the concern.”

“I hate when you’re all mopey mouth, it brings me down,” she said between bites. She jabbed her spoon at him pointedly. “You’re all doom and gloom these days, even more than usual. Not that you were all happy before all—“ she gestured vaguely to the room, “this whole thing with Corypheshit, but you at least smiled, had a laugh every now and again. Now you’re all ‘ugh, I’m so sad’ and shite and it’s all…” Sera shook her head, sending her short hair flying about.

Blackwall focused on his own meal. “We’re at war and trying to save the world, it’s serious work—as it should be.”

Sera scowled and dropped her spoon in her now-empty bowl. “Look, that’s a crock of shite. I saw your face after you had your ‘serious talk’ with Quizzy and you’ve not been right ever since. And today, carrying her like a bride up to the tower she’s all but locked in—you’ve still got it for her and everyone knows it.” She paused, drumming her fingers on the table. “You got to, I don’t know, move on after that, y’know? Get back on the horse or whatever, not just throw yourself into every new thing that crosses your workbench between visiting the real world.”

 _Get back on the horse? How fickle does she think I am?_ He slammed his fist against the table, rattling the dishes on its surface. “Can we drop it, Sera? I’m fine!”

“Yeah, you sure are, Beardy,” she grunted. Sera rose from the table and quickly drained the rest of her ale, returning the mug on the table with a hard thud. “Get back to me when you quit being a tosser, maybe.”

Blackwall clenched the handle of his mug, failing to notice the whitening of his knuckles as she left. He contemplated her words as he finished his meal. _She doesn’t know what she’s going on about,_ he thought with a frown.

He hadn’t told her what was said on the battlements between him and Elara those weeks ago. She didn’t know how it felt in that moment, to refuse the greatest gift he had ever wished he could deserve. Sera would never know the longing that haunted the very core of his being since the day he met Elara. Thom scowled into his ale, his thoughts lingering on those poisonous words.  

_“There can’t be anything between us, my lady,” he swore under the harsh sun of the afternoon. They had walked up to overlook the outer courtyard, where the soldiers trained. He hoped the familiar clanging of metal on metal would soothe his nerves but one look at her face had him in knots._

_Elara stared at him in stunned silence, stopping where they had been walking along the wall. “Blackwall, I…” she trailed off, brows drawn as she searched for the words. “After all these months, after everything we’ve been through together, I thought that there was a certain affection between us.”_

_He sighed and turned from her, focusing instead on the training regimen below. “You are an admirable woman, my lady—Inquisitor—and a good friend. I value your companionship dearly, but…” He leaned his hands against the the battlement, the words caught in his throat._

_Quiet footsteps closed the distance between them and her hand reached tentatively toward him, lighting on his shoulder. “Please, Blackwall, I don’t understand.” Her husky voice trembled as she spoke. “You’re always with me—reaching for me, looking when you think I won’t notice, never far from my side… and I like it, how you seek me out just as much as I do you.”_

_She paused, her fingers tightening over the quilted fabric of his gambeson. “Why, then?”_

_Blackwall grit his teeth and wished he could take his lies back, wished he could crush her to him and imprint the shape of his heart on her lips with his own. He remembered the heat of her kiss, the sharp taste of wine and fear on her tongue when she had all but leapt into his arms. The memory lingered in the quiet moments of the night when he tossed and turned, when both his body and his heart would ache for her._

_“The offense is mine, Inquisitor,” he bit out. He couldn’t look at her in his shame. “I should not have led you to such conclusions, unwittingly as I did. It was a mistake on my part. I beg your forgiveness, and hope that you understand that these flirtations cannot continue.”_

_Elara’s hand dropped from his shoulder and took a step back from him, the small movement tearing like a lance through his heart. “And last week in Haven, before I met Corypheus?” she asked._

_His face fell._

_“Oh.” Her whisper was nearly lost over the noise below them._

_“I’m sorry, my lady.” Blackwall turned to see her arms snake around herself, hugging over her stomach as she stared over the courtyard. He bowed to her, fisting his right hand over his heart in the Inquisition’s salute before retracing his steps toward the keep, praying that she wouldn’t call to him as he retreated. He couldn’t say if he could rebuff her a second time._

Movement broke him from his memories as a tall woman approached his table—the blonde qunari from downstairs—the confident roll of her hips and her tight curves distracting him from earlier thoughts. “I’m Taala,” she said with a smile, a faint flush darkening along her cheekbones. Her hand brushed her blonde hair away from her face as she sat down before him. “Can I get you another drink?”

He eyed his empty mug and sat it gently on the table. “Blackwall—and yes, that’s very kind of you.” He returned her grin with his own. Maybe a distraction would serve him well, after all. “Good ale is paired best with better company, after all.”  

\---

They stumbled in the dark of the evening toward her room, neither particularly drunk but full of warmth and alcohol and need. Hands brushed over arms, shoulders, backs, everywhere they could reach as they walked to her door, stopping often to clutch at each other through exploratory kisses. He pressed her against the oaken panel of her door, sucking hard marks upon her collarbones as she fumbled for her key. Breathlessly, she pulled him into the dark confines of the room, the open curtains letting the moonlight into the small chamber.

This was simple—sex, need, lust. He closed the shallow distance between them, his cock throbbing against her thigh as he pressed wet kisses along the column of her throat. There were no ghosts clinging behind her eyes, no forbidden feelings elicited by her touch. Sometimes life could be easy, not tangled with questions unanswered or long-buried secrets yearning for release. Just the mutual wish to not be alone, if only for a few hours.

He stripped her of her tunic easily, the thin fabric falling away from her to reveal long paths of soft skin, forest green in the stray moonbeams. Taala’s breast-band taunted him and he nuzzled along the edges of the offending garment, beard trailing over the swells of her breasts and earning him her quiet moans. His hands roamed over the lines of her back, reaching up to run over her shoulders before falling to unclasp the fastenings of the band.

“You are beautiful,” he murmured as he took a half-step back, his hands moving to rest at her hips. Her short horns shone with a pearlescent luster in the moonlight, nestled into blonde hair that begged to have his fingers rake amongst the strands. Her skin was flush with heat and the wine they shared earlier, a deep pink playing over the fascinating angles of her face. He smiled, lust curling low in his belly as his gaze scorched over her, capturing the sight of her body, her gentle curves begging to be touched, caressed, worshipped.

She bent her head to his and plied him with insistent kisses, her fingers making quick work of his quilted jacket and swiftly rucking his tunic upward. Taala broke away and lifted the material over his head, throwing it to the side and pulling him to the bed that dominated much of the small room. Somehow they managed to get her out of the soft leather leggings and he knelt between her thighs at the edge of the bed, her hands in his hair and urging him forward.

Blackwall deftly draped Taala’s legs over his shoulders as he pressed kisses along her inner thighs, teeth nipping delicate love bites into her skin. He chuckled as she bucked, wordlessly begging for his touch. His hands pulled her closer to him and adjusted his fit between her thighs before bending to her, tracing her folds with his tongue.

Taala moaned above him with words of filthy praise, the sound stirring the blood in his aching cock. Blackwall laved her with his tongue, lapping and swirling to wring mewling cries from her lips. She bucked against his hand when he entered her eager cunt with two thick digits, rocking into his mouth as he sucked and licked at her clit.

“Blackwall,” she cried out as he curled his thrusting fingers, finding and stroking the pad of nerve endings deep within her. The sound of his name on her lips was foreign—too high, too reedy—but he devoured her all the same, working her until she thrashed and writhed in her passion against his mouth.

Her fingers in his hair pulled him up her body and she crushed him against her chest, growling into his lips as she tasted herself in his mouth. Together they made quick work of his breeches and she wrapped her long legs around his waist, slotting easily into each other. He thrust into her wet heat, forcefully and inelegantly, each chasing their release.

Taala clung to him as he pounded into her, her nails raking long furrows over his back and shoulders. Blackwall growled and fixed his mouth at her shoulder, sinking his teeth into her flesh as she cried out. Her cunt flexed with every long, punishing stroke and he could feel his release swelling low in his belly. He shifted slightly to angle deeper into her silken heat, drawing her long, keening cries to echo through the room.  

Blackwall had to capture her mouth with his, nipping at her lips to keep from crying out another’s name as he felt his release threaten to take him. Her cunt clenched around his cock, squeezing as she came and tipping him over the edge of his own pleasure. He pulled out to spill over her thighs, bright light bursting behind his eyelids as he struggled not to see dark hair and darker eyes.

\---

“Blackwall.” Taala groaned his name hours later as they lay collapsed against each other, utterly spent and satisfied. She idly ran her fingers along his spine. “Stay.”

He wrapped his arm around her in response, his heart stuttering in his chest at the familiar words. Blackwall nuzzled his beard across her shoulder and pressed lazy kisses over the bite marks he had left on her.

This was a command he could obey.

\---

Full darkness had fallen by the time Elara awoke again, shivering in the chill of the night air. She clambored out of bed, the heavy thud of the fur blanket sliding to the floor catching her attention, visible in the moonlight spilling across the room. Elara retrieved it, stroking her hand over the soft hair.

“I shouldn’t have come to you,” she told the blanket. Her voice shook with the words, her throat still sore from earlier outbursts. “You’ve made your position very clear, and I…” she trailed off with a frustrated huff. “I am talking to a blanket.” She tossed the fur to the nearby sofa.

She strode across the room, renewing the dying fire in the hearth once more. As the flames flickered to life she made her way to the balconies, drawing closed their curtained doors. The moon and stars no longer pressed through the glass doors, leaving her only with the growing firelight as she moved through the large chamber.

Elara stilled, her eyes straying toward the fireplace. A plan formulated in her mind before she could register it and in moments she stood before the hearth. She pulled an ornate box from the mantle, retrieving its contents—an unexpected gift from Solas, herbs to facilitate the lucid dreams he favored. A thrill of electricity roiled her stomach as she looked upon the petite leaves.

“I hope this works.” She removed a small bunch of the plant and, reconsidering, took another pinch to make her bundle. Elara pulled a smouldering log forward from the heart of the fire and laid the herbs on its glowing embers. Wisps of soft green smoke drifted from the fire, just as Solas had described; she relaxed slightly at the sight and stepped away.

Her limbs trembled as she pulled off her nightdress as she approached the crates that now held her wardrobe. Elara wrinkled her nose at the sight of blood spots on the thin fabric. “That explains Thom’s questions earlier,” she muttered under her breath, glancing down at her belly. The elfroot potion earlier must have taken care of the abrasions, as well as those on her hands, for her skin was as smooth as ever with no sign of her weakness to be seen. With a sigh she dropped the soiled garment in a basket in the storage closet, passing the new armor stand as she went.

Her chest tightened at the sight of her sword. Without a thought she pulled it to her, belting it to her bare hip, the leather grip a comforting weight in her hand. The ironbark sang as she pulled the blade from its scabbard, no worse for wear after the abuses she put it through earlier in the morning. She padded back to the fire, the sword gleaming in the flickering light.

Naked, she sat before the flames, again unsure of what to do. “Herbs, fire, smoke. Everything is as it should be.” The sound of her voice calmed her, centering her in the green haze. She fidgeted a moment before shifting to lay beside the hearth, the plush piling of the rug soft under her skin. Elara held her hands at her chest, fingers clenching slightly around the leather wrapping of the sword hilt, the length of the blade skimming over the tattooed lines of her belly down to her thighs. She cleared her mind, focusing on her task as Solas had suggested.

“Let me see them one more time.” She closed her eyes, feeling the smoke lure her into a trance as she repeated her prayers, the words of the chant blurring together as she drifted.

_Please let this work._

_\---_

_Elara heard the somber whispers of her clanmates as she returned to the camp with Keeper Deshanna at her side. The final vigil had been arduous; the days of fasting and wakefulness had taken their toll on her, leaving dark circles under her eyes and a hollow hunger in her belly. The pain had been worth it to see the faces of her peers as they returned, hand in hand._

_“Wake the camp,” Deshanna called from the treeline, “we greet the dawn with a new ritual.”_

_Movement broke between the aravels as the younger children swept down the beach, waking their slumbering neighbors. A deerskin drum beat steadily as Elara followed Keeper Deshanna to her tent, a newly raised seating area waiting for them. Slowly the clan gathered before the platform, blinking sleep from their eyes and chattering among themselves. Deshanna raised her hand, quieting the crowd._

_“We rejoice in the light of Elgar’nan, the blessed sun that keeps us warm and safe, in witness of this special occasion,” the woman called, her sober words ringing in the morning quiet. She turned to Elara, cool grey eyes meeting her own. “You have undertaken your final vigil and earned your right to wear the_ vallaslin _of the Creators,_ da’len. _On this day of your twenty-second year, receive the blessings of the gods and take your role among the Clan.”_

_Elara knelt before the keeper, resting on her ankles obediently as she unwrapped her robe. A ripple of unease swept through the crowd as Deshanna took out her ritual knife, a sharp obsidian blade that gleamed in the early morning light._

_“Let anyone who would object do so now,” the Keeper called. Elara watched her look over the crowd, eyes scanning over her head. “This child has been called to her blessing among the Clan and the People She has earned the right to receive her_ vallaslin _carven by blade, not by the spell.” She paused, seeking an objection that did not come. Satisfied, Keeper Deshanna turned her attention to Elara’s face._

_The blade pressed into her brow, so sharp that she did not register the cuts at first until blood welled down her nose. Deshanna’s hands were sturdy and strong, the blade moving easily in long lines and short curves as she carved the wide-sweeping tree into her skin. Slowly the keeper drew her blade down from her face to her chest, engraving roots and branches over her swell of her breasts and shoulders. Elara steeled herself against the pain and focused on the rhythmic beat of the drummer as the ritual wore on._

_The sun was high in the sky by the time Deshanna finished the carving. The keeper wiped her blade on a nearby cloth and reached for a jar of thin paste. Deshanna carefully pressed the inky substance into the weeping lines of her face and chest, sopping up blood with the cloth as she continued. Soon enough all was complete and she laid her hands on the crown of Elara’s head, a wave of hot healing magic pouring quickly into her, sealing the lines of her new tattoo with the scent of sun-warmed clover. “Rise,_ da’len _,” Keeper Deshanna intoned, and she shakily did as she bid, drawing the thin robe about her before facing her clan._

_Her eyes scanned the stunned crowd, taking in their silence. Tattooed and bare faces alike peered back at her, some twisted with concern and surprise, some with muted horror at the design she had chosen. Elara raised her chin. She had not bowed to their opinions before, and she would not start now._

“Da’len,” _the Keeper’s voice rang out, rich with ritual. “To whom do you belong?”_

_“I am Elara of Clan Lavellan, daughter of Shira the Hearthkeeper, Knight-Apprentice to the Emerald Knight Selan.” She fought to keep the tremor from her voice, unused in the months of her vigils._

_“And whose mark do you wear upon your face, greeting the sun and the People?”_

_“I wear the mark of Lethanavir, known as Falon’Din_ , _Friend and Guardian of the Dead. I speak his name with every breath, whisper it each time I unsheathe my blade. May he guide me toward justice and mercy, and may he carry me when I pass.”_

_The aging Selan moved through the crowd, carrying a long fur-wrapped parcel, and came to stand with them on the platform. With practiced care he motioned to someone behind him, their clanmates shifting to reveal two others who carried heavy wooden trunks toward them. They left their crates at Elara’s feet before melting back into the crowd._

_“Do you pledge your life to the Clan—to carry our burdens, to know our secrets, to protect our ways?” he asked loudly, his voice projecting to fill every ear._

_“I do,” she said confidently, meeting his gaze. People shifted nervously at the turn the ritual had taken. It had been nearly sixty years since Selan’s own pledge had been made, and many here had not been present at the ceremony._

_“Do you swear to lay your life and your sword for your Keeper, to live for your Clan?”_

_“I swear.” More whispers rippled through the assembly before them._

_“Give to us your_ dirtha’vhen’an, da’len _.”_

_Her brow creased slightly. This sacred vow had not been covered in preparation for the ritual. Both Selan and Keeper Deshanna kept neutral expressions, and the keeper nodded for her to continue. She took a steadying breath, crafting the oath that would bind her to the clan._

_“In the name of the Creators I swear to you, Clan Lavellan, that I shall be your Knight. My blade is yours, my shield yours, my life yours. I swear this_ dirtha’vhen’an _: my every action, my every heartbeat and breath, is to care for Clan Lavellan—as long as I live.”_

_Selan nodded and slowly unwrapped the package he carried, an ironbark longsword in a heavily crafted scabbard. Holding it in both hands, he proffered the blade to her. “May this blade and armor serve you well, as you serve us.”_

_Keeper Deshanna took the fur wrapping from Selan, laying the halla hide cloak about her shoulders._ _“Your path is long and twisting, full of pain and tribulation, but I know you will succeed,” she whispered in her ear, a rueful smile tugging at her lips as they crossed gazes. “You do us proud.”_

_Elara cautiously took the sword, belting it around her waist. With a deep breath she drew the ironbark blade, holding it aloft as cheers rang out in the late morning sun._

_Deshanna’s voice rose in a triumphant shout. “On behalf of the Clan I name you Elara, the Emerald Knight of Lavellan!”_

_Her clanmates rallied, shouts and cries of congratulations breaking through the air. It was always a joyous occasion to witness the receiving of_ vallaslin _, and while hers was a more solemn affair, the undercurrent of celebration was still there._

_A single face did not join in the adulation. Her mother shook her head at the far edge of the crowd, turning away from the scene. Elara’s heart clenched at the sight as she sheathed her sword and turned to Keeper Deshanna, who took her into a tight embrace. She searched for her mother over the keeper’s shoulder, but she had vanished._

\---

Elara broke from the trance with a start, her mother’s face still in her memory as she grounded herself again before the glowing embers of the hearth. Her hands shook around her sword hilt and the bare blade slid down her belly, ghosting a short, paper-thin cut over her skin.

“Fen’Harel’s furry cock!” Setting the sword at her side, Elara rose to her knees before the dying fire. A trembling hand skimmed over the stinging line, confirming it to be more annoying than a concern. She sighed and shook her head. “This is why we don’t sleep with swords.” An embarrassed heat ran through her.

She took a calming breath, nostrils flaring at the lingering smoke in the air. Her stomach growled after a day, perhaps more—she had lost count—of disuse, the hollowness in her belly reminding her of the waking world. _One more thing,_ she told herself.

Her hands rose to plait her wavy hair, its tail reaching past her arse before she wound the length in her fist. Elara stared into the struggling flames as she took up her sword. _Falon’Din guide me,_ she prayed. She quickly swept the blade through her locks, severing the heavy braid to leave an uneven mess of curls just brushing her shoulders.

The plait hung limp as it unraveled in her hand, heavy as a length of iron chain in her fingers. A sharp ache grew in her chest at the sight; she had not done more than trim her locks since taking on her _vallaslin_ all those years ago, when she received her knighthood. She rose to her feet, stiff-legged, and walked to the larger of the room’s balconies.

There was no siren’s song as she threw open the curtains to reveal the dawn. The sight made her falter—had so much time elapsed since she lay before the fire? She opened the doors and strode forward into the brisk morning air, focusing on her task.

The balustrade of the balcony, a thin railing of metal and stone, did nothing to tempt her. Perhaps it recognized she had lost and was already a ghost, drifting about in the world alone. Her mother’s sorrowful face flooded through her mind’s eye as she stood at the precipice, the slight wind catching on the long strands between her fingers.

 _“Falon’Din enasal enaste, lethal’aan_. May Lethanavir carry you beyond the Veil to join our ancestors. _”_   Reaching her hand toward the Frostpeak Mountains, Elara slowly opened her hand and let the breeze sweep the hairs from her palm, tipping to drop the remnants into the mountainside below.

Gooseflesh pebbled her skin as she stood in the chilly air. She wrapped her arms about her, rocking on her feet, before turning back to the room to dress, the gown and leggings warming her quickly in the chilled room. Barefoot, she descended the stone stairs and meandered through the castle halls.

The passages were nearly empty as she walked through them, the occasional runner and castle page hurrying to reach their own destinations. A familiar face caught her eye as she made her way, Sera sneaking into the kitchen ahead of her. Elara quickened her steps, bouncing quietly on her toes to catch the roguish elf.

“Piss-tits arsebiter!” Sera swore, whirling about at the touch of her hand on her shoulder. She glowered at Elara for a moment before breaking into a laugh. “I’ll admit, that was pretty smooth, Quizzy,” she said with a wide smile. “We’ll make a sneak of you, yet!”

Elara chuckled at the thought. “It’s rare to pull one over on you, I’m surprised I managed it at all.”

“Yeah, I might be a little—” Sera’s stomach gave an alarming rumble “—distracted.” She laughed, the sound echoing in the empty hallway. “Come on, I’ll show you where they hide the cookies. You like cookies, right? Gobshite pastry...”

Elara made short work of arranging her breakfast while Sera raided the dessert boxes, filling her tray with small rounds of cheeses, sausage, and a hunk of bread. Three cookies landed unceremoniously on the tray.

“Treats are better when stolen, and everyone needs more sweetness,” Sera explained through a mouth full of brownie.

Elara shook her head but smiled at the remark. “Join me for breakfast? I have to finagle some water for a bath but my stomach is threatening to riot if I don’t put something in me.”

Sera laughed at the phrasing and followed her from the kitchen. “Sure—and you need some help with that hair. I’ll grab some supplies and meet you in your tower, yeah?”

Elara stilled. “You cut hair?” Her eyes ran to the choppy bangs that framed Sera’s face. “Are you sure?”

“Of course!” She withdrew another brownie from her pocket. “What’s the worst that can happen?”

Elara laughed nervously at Sera’s retreating form as they parted, sight lingering on the short, uneven lengths of her hair. She shook her head with a small smile, her unruly locks flouncing. Surely the curls would forgive whatever grievances they would put them through.

The Great Hall was still empty as she moved through it, with some castle stewards moving briskly through their duties. Her own steward, Malia, waited by the outer door to her chamber as she crossed the wide hall. The younger woman nearly ran to her, panic-stricken eyes emphasized by her own _vallaslin_.

“Your Worship! I’m so glad to see you are well, we were so worried about you.” Malia dropped into a low bow with her hands outspread before her. “We heard the news about Lavellan. _Ar dan’lathast ahnsul mar ebalathe_.”

Elara winced at Malia’s deferential genuflection. Her clanmates had made that gesture toward their Keeper and herself for the twelve years she bore the blade of Lavellan. The sight of Malia giving her that same respectful reverence made her stomach clench. “ _Ma serannas,_ Malia.” She shuffled her bare feet against the carpeted floor. “I am sorry to make you worry.”

The woman rose, pulling her hair behind her tapered ears. “I have been keeping the others from bothering you in this time, but they have continued sending you messages and other missives. They’re in a pile on the table, by your inner door.” Malia frowned slightly. “You’ll see them when you do. I won’t keep you from breaking your fast, but I will call for a bath. Your war council will be eager to see you; I think your spymaster has some urgent news for you.”

Elara sighed. “When doesn’t she?” she asked ruefully, drawing a gentle smile from her steward. “Tell Leliana I will meet with her later today, and please give her my deepest regret for my actions the other day. I have some tasks that need taking care of, first, but will find her as soon as I can.” She moved to pass her steward and stopped briefly, holding out one of her purloined treats. “Thank you, Malia; please, accept a cookie for your kindness. I’ve been told it is all the sweeter for being stolen.”

Malia beamed at the gift and helped her with the first door to the tower, closing it behind her as Elara made her way up the flights of stairs. A large pile of notices lay on her receiving table and she groaned at the sight. She clumsily arranged them under her arm and brought them into the room proper, dropping the pile on her desk.

A journal slid free from the disorganized stack, catching her eye before she moved away. It was a thin book, perhaps no thicker than the span of two fingers, and bound in a beautiful brown leather. She flipped it to reveal the cover, a sword embossed in gold on its smooth surface. Her sword, she realized, recognizing the distinctive details captured on the outline. Her fingers traced the paint, barely skimming the material. Elara clutched it to her chest and brought it to bed, thumbing idly through the creamy pages with one hand while cautiously eating with the other.

Her exploration yielded a short note that fell with a soft sigh from the pages, written in a practiced hand. She snorted as she read it aloud. “Thought you could use it. Figured there’s a lot of shit in your head—it’s good to get it out. Hopefully it helps, your Inquisitorialness.”

“Ah, good ol’ Varry, eh?” Sera had crested the top of the stairs silently and leaned against the railing. “He’s alright, if too wordy. Always good for a laugh, though.” Quick steps brought her to the bed and she slumped backwards onto the thick covers. Her laughter echoed in the room. “Andraste’s tits, it smells like a smoking den in here! What are you hiding?”

Elara smiled. “Incense, my friend, not anything more festive. Feel free to open the balconies, if you’d like, the view is fantastic.” A knock resounded at the door and Sera jumped up to grab it. “Ah, that’s hopefully Malia with some bath water.”

Tucking a curl behind her ear, she moved from the bed to open the smaller of the balconies, where she had arranged her bathing supplies. Malia and another two stewards followed soon behind, carrying large buckets of sloshing liquid that filled the tub.

“Please hold a moment, friends,” Elara called, retrieving a small sack from her desk drawer. She pulled three copper pieces from the bag and handed one to each of the stewards. “Thank you for your help, as always.”

Malia caught her off-guard with a tight hug, arms squeezing around her still-aching ribs. “Thank you for your kindness, Your Worship,” she replied. The three saluted before departing, leaving Sera to consider her with a raised brow.

“You always so generous with them?” she asked softly.

Elara turned to look at her friend. “I try,” she said honestly. “I try to remember they are skilled employees, and not just…” she shrugged with a slight frown. “I try to treat them as well as I would anyone else. They work hard to keep us afloat, they deserve to be paid.”

“Even though they already get paid?”

“Of course. Does it bother you?”

Sera blinked owlishly before looking away. “Nah, I just…” she trailed off. “Sometimes you’re all arse over teakettle, Quizzybits. You’re too elfy and all, and kinda poncey in a way I don’t much shine for, but also kind of real good and stuff. You even pay us, though most of us jumped at the chance to be here. It’s a little queer when you’re used to senseless prats.”

Elara chuckled. “Well, I hope I don’t become one of those.” She made her way to the bath, stripping from her night dress as she went, tossing the garment behind her. “Do you still mind helping me with my hair while I bathe, Sera?” she asked over her shoulder, crouching to find the heating runes in her toiletries box. Elara ran her finger over the carved runes and tossed two into the water, watching as the magical stones began to heat the water.

“Sure sure, Quiz, don’t worry over. Wasn’t expecting you to get all buff, first. Not that I’m complaining, didn’t think I’d live to see that,” Sera said with a laugh. Elara heard a quieter murmur, as if Sera was talking to herself. “Beardy would kill to be here right now.”

Elara stilled midway through peeling off her leggings. “What did you say?”

Sera smiled. “I said sure, Quizzybits, don’t worry. We’ll get you looking sharp in a jiffy, I even brought my best knife!”

“I meant about T—about Blackwall.”

“Oh.” Sera scuffed her boot on the rug, her smile falling away. “I’m just saying, if that nightdress is all you wore when you went to see him, no wonder he’s a thundercloud. He loves you to bits and then you do something all feel-y like that...”

Elara stepped out of her leggings and briefly considered hiding in the bath until Sera left. “It’s not like that,” she said softly. She slowly lowered herself into the tub and closed her eyes, focusing on the warm water.

“Are you blind or just daft, Quiz? It’s right there. I saw him when you, I dunno, rejected him and shite a month ago. He’s not quite right anymore.”  

She could hear Sera drag a chair to the balcony and settle behind her. Elara cupped her hands and wet her hair, combing her fingers through the messy curls for Sera to trim. “Is that what he told you?” she asked incredulously.

“Nah, not in so many words,” she hedged with a small huff. “He was just in a pissingly foul mood afterward, told me not to bother either of you about it. Didn’t talk to me for some three days, actually, but I kept my eye on him.” Her hands worked through Elara’s hair, methodically cutting the wet strands. “Saw him just last night, too. What an arse-biter, that one. Oi, don’t turn your head or you’ll be even more lopsided than you are now!”

Elara turned to face her as well as she could, water splashing onto the stone below them. “Sera, that’s not what happened.” She sighed and rubbed the tense spot between her brows. “He rejected _me,_ not the other way around, and not even that.”

Tears pricked at her eyes again, for the millionth time in the past three days. “He walked with me to check the battlements and said he didn’t return my feelings. That he didn’t realize that’s how I felt, and how he had accidentally led me on.” She turned back to face the mountains, taking a shaky breath. “When I came to him I just needed a friend to help me through the—through everything.”

“Huh.” Sera played with her hair again, pulling sections across her blade. “Nah, that’s nowhere near what I thought I knew, I’ll confess that. It changes things.” She fell silent, working her fingers through Elara’s hair. “Does sound like him, though, just a bit. He’s too good, you know?”

She laughed, a harsh sound that did nothing to abate her growing heartache. “Good enough to lie to my face, if what you say is true. He’s amazing.”

A sharp pull on her hair met her words. “Hey now, that’s not on. Did you tell him how you felt before?”

Elara closed her eyes at the pang of regret that flooded her. The night of Corypheus’s attack on Haven just over a month ago, he had been the last to leave her side, working together in ushering the civilians into the stone building of the Chantry. He had tried to dissuade her from going out alone to face their enemy, even after she had made the decision, and Thom had almost come to blows with Cullen for the commander’s acceptance of her harebrained plan to confront Corypheus alone.

The look on his face _—_ panic and fear written in the lines of his brow _—_ struck her as she pulled him away, and she had kissed him there in the shadows. The final thing she needed to gird her soul before walking out to face the dragon and the blighted abomination Corypheus was _Thom Blackwall_ —his unwavering faith, his confidence, his love. His hands had clutched her to him in a way alien and familiar all the same, scrabbling to keep her with him in the relative safety of the Chantry.

And then she had walked out of the hall to face the dragon and its master alone with him shouting at her back, trusting him to bar the door and help bear the Inquisition into the mountains behind her.

“I suppose not in as many words,” Elara said softly. “It doesn’t matter. He’s human, and a Warden, and when this is over, he…” She stifled a strangled groan. Wardens weren’t known for their longevity, but for their ultimate sacrifice. “And I, I have duties. Responsibilities. I have to find my people, see if any of them survived.”

Sera stilled behind her. “Can’t deny that, but this ‘ooh, I’m an elf in all my Elvhen Glory’ mess is exactly the shite I hate about Solas—the baggage turns to prejudice too pissin’ easy,” she said darkly. “You can’t change being a bloody elf any more than Beardy can help being a human; the rest of the world may have their heads up their arses, but neither of you are better than the other. We’re more than the shape of our friggin’ ears.”

Elara’s hands rose to rub at her temples. “I didn’t mean it that way, but how could it work? We each have our roles. When this is over, he’ll go back to Ferelden and I’ll return to—” she cut herself off. “I don’t know what I’ll do.”

“See, that’s the problem with you two. You need to talk—” she pulled on a new section of hair to punctuate her words “—and moon over each other less. Otherwise you’ll both be miserable, and that’s rubbish for anyone. There, now you should be right, hair-wise.”

Elara ran her fingers through her hair, combing through the wet curls. “Thank you, my friend. I don’t think I would have lived down meetings with Josephine or Leliana with such unkempt locks.”

“It’s amazing what you pick up in the alienage,” she grunted. “Just because I like my choppy bits doesn’t mean you get to go out looking all ragged.” She laid her hand on Elara’s shoulder, squeezing lightly. “Just, remember what I said, yeah? You both are in crap places but you could be better together. Talk to him, get it sorted.”

Elara turned and cocked her brow. “You know, you’re not the only one to say that, in that phrasing.”

Sera cackled with a wide grin. “Oh, I know. Dorian and Varric have a bet on, and now that I have some secrety thoughts, I’m gonna get in on it. I’ll split the pot if you keep me in the loop!” She rose from the chair and carried it back to the desk. “Oh, and Quizzy? You should make sure to take a nice long bath. You smell like a _lot_ of ‘incense.’” She chuckled and traipsed down the stairs, leaving Elara to her thoughts.

\---

Elara paced between the doors leading to Josephine’s office, searching for the right words of apology for the woman who always knew what to say. “‘Josephine, I,’ no, too informal. ‘Lady Montilyet’—that’s not quite right, either. ‘Ambassador Josephine, I—’”

The heavy door opened before her, catching her by surprise. “If you’re going to say something, please come into my office before you wear a hole in the floor,” the ambassador scolded softly, emerging from behind the door. She quickly strode back to her massive desk, various piles of notes and correspondence stacked neatly across the large surface. “But I would like to note that I do have a lot of work to do, and now isn’t exactly the best time for a drawn out conversation.”

“I’m sorry, Josephine.”

They both quieted at the rushed words, as if mutually surprised by the utterance. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your day. But I do wish, and need, to apologize for my behavior two days previous, in the war room.”

Josephine sighed. “Come in, then,” she said, waving her in from the doorway.

Elara closed the door and followed, leaning against one of the plush guest chairs. Her hands twisted in the hem of her tunic, fidgeting with the buttons of the shirt as she gathered her thoughts. “I was...”

“A boor? Out of line? Out of sorts? Trampling over everything?” The words were harsh but without heat, though they stung all the same.

“May I choose all of the above?” Josephine’s short nod met her in response. “I was being terrible. I didn’t see it then but do now, and wish I had not said such vile things to you.” Elara’s voice trembled and she coughed, clearing her throat. “But wishing for misdeeds rectified does nothing. You were doing your job, and I was the one to make the decision to ask for Wycome’s aid instead of pursuing other options. I should have taken responsibility for the consequences, not foisted them upon you.”

Josephine looked away. “I appreciate your saying so…” She trailed off, her lips thinning slightly into a solemn line. “It hurt, what you said. I don’t know what it must be like to lose family but I had only wished to help you and yours the best way I knew how.”

“I, I know. I was entirely inappropriate and out of line then.”

“You were, but thank you for your apology.” She paused, tilting her head slightly when she brought her attention back to Elara’s face. “You cut your hair,” Josie observed softly.

Elara glanced away, her fingers rising to twist in her short tresses. “It’s a sort of tradition, I suppose, for my family. My mother said it helped her distance herself from the loss of my father, and I figured…” She shook her head, the dark curls bouncing around her face. “It felt like what I needed to do. Sera helped even it up; it was a mess once I was through. I couldn’t come to you looking like a rabid sheep.”

Josephine chuckled lightly at her words. “That she did so is certainly… a surprise,” she said diplomatically. Her smile faded but the kind light in her eyes remained. “I am sorry for your loss, Inquisitor. Please let me know if there is anything you need from me.”

Elara knew a dismissal when she heard it. Turning to the door, she had her hand on the ornate handle before a last thought crossed her mind. “Actually, ambassador, I have a question for you. How long do you think it would take to travel to Wycome?”

Josephine closed her eyes, thinking loudly enough that Elara could almost hear her mind at work. “I will have to consult my maps and make some calculations before I know the answer,” she replied. “There are a couple routes one could take. I would need to check.”

Elara nodded. “I would be greatly appreciative of the results of your research, if you have time.”

“Of course, Your Worship.”

“Thank you, again, Ambassador Montilyet.” Elara bowed and exited the room, fingers flexing in the loose fabric of her tunic. Her steps quickly turned toward the rookery, seeking her next nerve-fraught meeting of the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Two Elvhen Translations, from [FenxShiral's](http://archiveofourown.org/users/FenxShiral/pseuds/FenxShiral) ["Project Elvhen: An Elvhen Lexicon"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3719848).
> 
>   * Ar dan’lathast ahnsul mar ebalathe: “I grieve for your mourning”
> 

>   * Da’len: child, young one
> 

>   * Dirtha’vhen’an: promise, usually expected to be unbreakable. An unbreakable vow. lit. "The heart of speech," or "To speak of/from the heart."  
> 

>   * Falon’Din enansal enaste: a prayer for the dead, “begin again in the blessings of Falon’Din”
> 

>   * Lethal’aan: kin, clanmates, family (plural)
> 

>   * Lethanavir: Formal name for Falon’Din
> 

>   * Ma serannas: My gratitude
> 

>   * Vallaslin:designs written in blood upon the face or body of the dalish, used to denote not only clan, but also the personal signature of that person, as well as the god within the elven pantheon that they have chosen as their patron.
> 

> 
> Comments and kudos are always appreciated! Thank you for reading!
> 
> Also crossposted on my tumblr, [Ocean-in-my-Rebel-Soul](ocean-in-my-rebel-soul.tumblr.com)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I touched on some calendaring information, gleaned and slightly adapted from the Dragon Age Wikia calendar lore page and a fan-made crack at days of the week as named by various cultures/countries in Thedas, hosted here on AO3 at "Thedas Days of the Week," by AutopsyTurvy and Zorazen. 
> 
> Check them out!
> 
> As always, translations for the Elvhen words are in each chapter's end of chapter notes, so make sure to read those if you're interested!

The late afternoon sun cascaded over the training yard. New recruits moved through drills under the watchful eyes of Captain Rylen and Commander Cullen, who controlled the field with ease. Whispers and startled exclamations rippled over the yard.

“The Inquisitor!”

“Is she gonna…?”

“I heard she’s the only one to spar with the Commander nowadays.”

Elara strode across the edge of the courtyard, a blunted sparring blade belted to her hip and her breastplate in hand. 

Cullen jogged out to her from his place at the head of the yard. “Your Worship,” he called, “I didn’t expect to see you on the field.”

“I need to blow off some steam, Cullen. Have room for one more in your drills?”

His hand rose to his neck. “We’ve got new recruits on the field now, not our more experienced soldiers. I could spar with you, if you’d like?”

They walked to the sparring circle just outside the main training yard. Elara shrugged into her cuirass, quickly cinching the buckles of her plate at her sides.

“Won’t you require a gambeson, at least, or more armor?”

“You won’t hurt me, Cullen. I trust you.” Her eyes rose from where they lingered on the straps of her armor, turning to his puzzled look. “What?”

His eyes roved over her face. “You cut your hair.”

“Are you really going to ask me about my haircut when we could be training, Commander?”

Cullen shook his head. “I, no. Of course.” He strode to the nearby weapon stand, one of many that dotted the fenced wall of the area. He took his time choosing his blade, setting many aside until he found one to his liking, before returning to her. “Should we take up a shield, as well, Inquisitor?”

“Blades only, I think. We can’t always rely on having our best equipment at hand.”

“Very well.”

He pulled his heavy mantle from his shoulders, folding it neatly and leaving it on the fence. A lack of activity beyond them caught his attention to his side and he frowned. “Don’t you all have drills to work through?” he called.

The recruits had stopped in their work, watching them ready for their match. Even Rylen had let himself get distracted, and Elara could see the captain straighten his back at the scolding. “Eyes on yer own work, recruits!” he barked, drawing a grin to twist across her face.

She faced Cullen once more, unsheathing her blade. Even though she did not bear her own ironbark sword, the sigh of the steel whispering from its scabbard was one of her favorite noises. Comforting, confident. The familiar weight of the practice blade anchored her and she fell easily into her fighting stance, waiting as he did the same.

“Get ‘er, Commander!” a voice whooped from the training yard.

“Kick his arse, Your Worship” another called.

Their eyes met and he smirked, a taunting half-smile that threatened to weaken her knees. She fought to keep her breath as she feinted to his side. He struck her blade away easily, as she expected, and she set in against him in earnest.

There was no keeping their fellow soldiers on task as they sparred, the spectators ignoring Captain Rylen’s heated commands as Elara and Cullen moved about each other with practiced ease. They traded blows, sparks flying as steel caught against steel. She gripped her hilt with both hands before bringing her blade down, where he caught her easily on his crossguard.

“You’re distracted, Elara.”

She grunted as they fought for leverage, though she knew his height ultimately gave him the advantage. Elara ducked from under his blade, swinging their swords away and sweeping his legs out from under him.

Cullen landed on his back with a heavy thud, his breath escaping in a rough gasp. She moved to stand over him, offering her hand. He glanced warily at her before taking it, and they hauled him to his feet. He towered over her, crowding into her personal space, still gripping her forearm.

Her eyes darted to the fullness of his mouth for a moment before she stepped away, pulling her hand from his. She rolled her shoulders, shaking the tension from her muscles. “Leliana told me of darkspawn activity and Red Templars along the Storm Coast. I’ll be leaving in a few days, after we confirm some more information with camps in the area.”

He dusted himself off before bending to retrieve his fallen sword. “That would put anyone on edge,” he agreed. They squared off again and he moved first, testing her defenses. “I will send more soldiers with you to hold the coast.”

They circled each other, pressing against one another in turns. Voices called out as he swept his sword to her side only for her to spin away. He may have had the advantage of height and power, but she was faster and could more easily escape his strike zone. Cullen followed her retreat only to find her at his exposed side, the hit throwing him off balance once more, driving him to his knees.

“Harder, Cullen. You’re not going to hurt me.”

“You’re just so sm—”

She glowered at his unfinished words, heat flaring over her cheeks to the tips of her ears. “Don’t,” she said tightly. “I am just as capable as you.”

“Elara.” He righted himself once more. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“Do you trust me, Commander?” She paced, her steps kicking up dust over the cobblestones. “Do you trust me to know my own limitations?”

“Of course, Inquisitor.”

“Then treat me like it for once!”

Her sharp words cut, evidenced by his flinching. He looked away from her for a moment before returning. “Very well.” His teeth snapped with his words and Cullen readied himself once more, settling into a tight stance.

Cullen struck from above, snapping his broadsword out in a beautiful arc, setting his weight behind the blow as he drove toward her. He moved brutally, all power and finesse as they worked, years of training evident in every movement as he harried her. Elara rolled from where he would have connected with her shoulder to sweep up behind him into a low crouch. She smacked the back of his thigh with the flat of her sword.

“Is that all you’ve got, Cullen?”

He growled and turned, blade leading as he struck for her. “You don’t have to goad me into playing whatever it is this is, Elara,” he grit as he hit the shoulder cop of her armor. “I’d prefer you didn’t.”

She grimaced, rolling her sword arm to shake off the tingling that ran through it. “Just fight me, then.”

He stepped close under her guard before she could snake her blade between them. She felt his boot hook her ankle as he clutched his fingers around the collar of her plate, controlling her descent as he drove her to the ground.

His large palm spread over the center of her breastplate, his weight holding her down. “What do you want, Elara?” His sweaty brow creased with worry as he studied her face. “This isn’t like you. You’re not usually so… wild.”

She grunted with frustration and batted at his arm, gritting her teeth when he didn’t move. “You don’t know me, Cullen,” she said harshly, meeting his gaze. Her chest heaved under her plate as she panted.

“I’ve known you for most of a year now, I would hope I have some measure of you.” His gaze shuttered as he abruptly stood. “I can’t spar with you like this; there’s something going on here. I don’t want to hurt you.”

Elara came to her feet, cursing under her breath. She stooped to pick up her blade and sheathed it at her side. “Damn it, Cullen,” she muttered, pushing her hair out of her face. “I just need to get out of my head for a moment. You’ve always been good for a fair fight.”

He shook his head, confusion flashing across his expressive face. “I’m not sure that’s what this is, Elara.” His hand rose to rub his neck. “I don’t know _what_ this is, actually, but I’m here for you if you need me.”

She stiffened. “I don’t.” The callous words escaped her before she could stop herself.

“Elara…” He drew her name out on a sigh, searching her face again for something. He must not have found whatever it was he was looking for, instead turning away from her. “I should get back to my duties.”

Her fists clenched at her hips but she didn’t respond. Elara turned and stalked from the training yard, taking the stairs to the upper yard at a run.

“Get back to your drills, recruits!” he called behind her, ire coloring his voice as she retreated.

* * *

 The fire burned low in the war room, scattering shadows and flickering light across its tall walls. Elara took a long drink from her wine bottle as she eyed the map before her, shifting her attention between its details and the report in her hand.

“”Why am I the one who always has to fix these things?” she asked the empty room, not for the first time since waking eight months ago to the mark on her left hand. “I have an army of highly trained soldiers and excellent scouts—surely, someone else could put out the fires, too.”

The map stayed silent at her admonishment as she studied the areas the scouting report indicated, vague notations of mountains and caves on the thick parchment. She knew she would have to get Thom’s advice and call a war council meeting, but neither task agreed with her current state.

“Inquisitor? Maker’s breath—it’s nearly midnight, what are you doing here?”

Her eyes darted upward guiltily to where Cullen stood in the doorway, frowning at her. “You’re going to work yourself to death,” he admonished.

“You would know, you’ve been doing the same thing since we met,” she replied sourly, turning back to the map.

He chuckled at that, the sound sending a familiar heat to pool in her belly. “I’m not exactly the best role model.” Cullen pulled the door closed to join her at the table. “The Storm Coast?”

She nodded, motioning to the map as he moved a chair to sit next to her. “I hate this region; I had hoped never to return, if it could be helped.”

He gave a small smile. “It’s not a favorite of our troops stationed out there, either. You’re in good company.”

She snorted and took another drink from the bottle before speaking again, the wine helping to settle her nerves. “I owe you a multitude of apologies, Cullen. I’ve been behaving badly over the last few days and it’s done me no favors. I feel… lost.” The last word escaped her as a whisper.

“Is that why you did this?” He gestured to her hair. “Grief?”

“Cullen, I…” She sighed and took a healthy swig of wine, earning her his raised brow. “Yes. But I’m trying to apologize, don’t distract me. It wasn’t right to treat you so callously this afternoon, especially in front of your troops. You deserve more respect than what I gave you today, and I shouldn’t take my problems out on you.”

He studied the map markers on the table as she spoke. “Thank you,” he said, not meeting her eyes. “That’s… very thoughtful for you to think about.”

She snorted. “That’s me, Lady Considerate.” Elara drank from the bottle again before motioning to him with it. “Do you want some?”

He gave a half-smile as he considered the bottle out of the corner of his eye. “It _would_ be rude to refuse a lady,” he murmured, “though I did not come prepared; I have no glass.”

She laughed. “I don’t have the plague, Commander, you can drink from the bottle with me if you’d like, though you’re behind. It’s a fine year, I’m told—whatever that means.”

He turned to take the nearly empty bottle from her, sniffing discreetly at the liquid within before taking a heavy pull. “It’s… wine,” he agreed with a grimace. “I’ll admit, I’m more of a whisky drinker, when I do.” Cullen carefully sat the bottle on the floor.

Elara considered his words. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you drink, actually.”

He laughed, and it was the single most intriguing sound she had heard all day, infectious and deep. Her eyes took in the quick movements of his lips, the thin scar that scored over his mouth. He smiled and she tore her gaze away, a heat building in her face.

“I find it clouds my judgment. It’s a luxury reserved for quiet moments where I don’t need to be on my guard, and those are becoming fewer and fewer these days.” Cullen ran a hand through his hair, tousling the well-ordered locks. Distractedly she realized he was in plainclothes, devoid of his usual armor.

“And now?”

Cullen leveled a long look at her, capturing her gaze. “Do I need to be on my guard right now, Elara?” he asked softly.

Her eyes strayed to his lips again and a slight tremble ran through her. “I suppose not,” she said, the flush creeping over her ears. She licked her lips nervously. “Should I be?”

He leaned toward her, the firelight bronzing the planes of his face. His hand rose to gingerly cup her cheek, his bare thumb skimming over her skin. “I would appreciate if you weren’t.”

“Cullen…” She trailed off as she closed the distance between them, her lips ghosting over his.

Her hands rose to his chest, fingers gripping into his tunic to pull him closer as they tasted each other, cautious kisses swiftly turning exploratory. Elara’s breath caught and released with a low whine when he nibbled at her bottom lip.

She pressed into him, lips parting when his tongue feathered against the plump seam of her mouth, his hands cupping her jaw to tip her head back for his better access. Elara captured his groan, the noise rumbling through his chest and into her, melting her into a loosely contained puddle of want.

Cullen shifted a hand to cradle her head, his strong fingers at the nape of her neck rubbing small circles at the sensitive skin there. She moaned at the sensation, her hands scrabbling to his hair, tousling his honey-blond locks and pulling. _More,_ the motion begged.

He broke the kiss and pulled away, amber eyes wide and breathing ragged. “Maker, I, Elara…” Heat suffused over his face as he stumbled through his words. He found his feet quickly, knocking over the chair in his haste. “This is—”

She stood languidly, skimming her hands over the broad expanse of his chest.  

“I—” a ragged gasp escaped him as she nuzzled at his jaw, molding her body against his. “This is…”

A hand rose to his hair again, her gentle pressure directing him to meet her gaze. “ _Cullen_.”

He shivered under her touch. “We can’t,” he whispered, nearly panting against her lips when she offered her mouth to him. “You’re… You’re drunk, and grieving. Maker knows I want you, but this, right now, this is wrong.”

The words cooled the fire in her belly as they registered in her mind. She stepped away, her fingers running thoughtlessly to her kiss-swollen lips. An embarrassed heat scorched its way from the tips of her ears to her chest. “ _Fenedhis._ ” She turned and walked quickly to the door, her heart pounding in her chest.

“Elara, wait!”

“I’m calling a council meeting tomorrow morning, I’ll send a runner. Goodnight, Commander.” She darted through the door before she could hear his reply, running the short distance down the Great Hall to her own chambers.

_What was I thinking?_

She took the stairs two at a time, quickly retreating to the comfort of her suite. Her heart stuttered in her chest as her skin still burned under his touch. Elara threw the bar to her inner door and sank against the solid oak to keep her knees from buckling under her.

_“Cullen.”_

His name escaped her on a whisper, a tender thing alight in the moonlit staircase. Her fisted hands rose to press against the pulse points there.

“He’s my friend.” The words hung uncertainly in the air. Months of long looks and easy touches flashed through her memory, taking on a new weight under the blistering heat of his kiss.

_Has he always been so… near?_

Cullen had become her one of her dear friends since her unorthodox induction into the Inquisition, leaning heavily on his counsel and, later on, his friendship. Had she put him through something similar to what she had experienced in not seeing his affection?

Her stomach knotted at the thought.

“How far would tonight have gone if he weren't such a good man?” she asked the moonlight. Elara’s body was still too relaxed, thrumming with anticipation at the thought of his calloused hands on her. Would she had let him take her there, in the war room? Would she have dragged him to her chambers?

Would either of them have regretted it come morning?

“Fen’Harel take me, I’ve made such a mess of everything.”

_And what of Thom?_

His easy smile and quick laughter flooded her mind, both too long absent. “He made it clear,” she told the empty staircase. “No matter what Sera believes, that is what he told me. He would not lie to me.” She came to her feet, climbing the last set of stairs to her room.

Her eyes strayed to the fur blanket that lay strewn over the sofa from the morning before. She stripped of her clothes, dropping them on the floor as she passed to her bed before snagging the fur and climbing into the bedspread. She wrapped herself in the blanket, surrounded by Thom’s scent.

 _This is the last moment of weakness,_ she told herself, ignoring the tender, aching heart that beat in her chest. 

Tomorrow she would reaffirm her boundaries, build her walls anew.

* * *

A knock resounded at his door, jarring him from his sleep. Blackwall eased himself out from the comforts of his bed and the woman in it, tossing on loose trousers before answering the door.

“Ser Blackwall, urgent message from the Inquisitor,” the runner announced. “Inquisitor Lavellan requests your presence in the war room in an hour.”

He frowned, his mind still muddled. “A full war council, then?”

“Yes, Ser, I believe so. We are locating the Council members now.” The young man turned to walk off.

“Ah, hold a moment. What time is it now?”

“Just coming on ten in the morning, Ser. I apologize for waking you.” His duty fulfilled, the runner dashed down the corridor.

Taala stirred behind him as he shut the door against the outside world. “What’s this now?”

He sighed. “The Inquisitor has called for her war council. I should get ready.”

Blackwall could hear her moan softly as she stretched in the bed. “Any time for a distraction? We could be quick,” she offered coyly, the bed creaking softly as she shifted.

He turned to find her halfway to him already, swiftly closing the distance to press him against the door. He leaned into her hungry kisses that trailed from his mouth down his neck. Her hands wandered over the hard planes of his chest and shoulder and he shuddered under her casual movements. “I don’t have the time to savor such a—”

A sharp bite of her teeth at the hollow of his throat nearly had him bucking against the door, interrupting his thoughts with a wave of desire. They had spent most of the last two days in each others’ beds, their activity seeming only to fuel their wants. From this angle he could see the bruises that blossomed over her own neck and shoulders, the bites marking his trail down her body where he had lingered in his explorations.

The sight served to inflame him further.

“Taala,” he warned, moving his hands to her shoulders to push her away. “I have to go.”

“You have an hour,” she protested, though she did step away. “Plenty of time to fuck, wash, and dress before your meeting with Her Worship.”  Her hand drew down his arm but she didn’t pull him from the door. “We’ll be quick.”

She was a very persuasive woman.

He swiftly found himself under her, his grunted swears echoing off the walls as she rode his cock. His blunt nails pressed gouges into her arse as he guided her roughly, thrusting into her tight cunt while she rocked. The bed shook into the wall with their efforts; their coupling was neither sweet nor slow as they took from each other. In short work Taala wrung him dry, quivering around him with a shout as she came and pulled him along with a groan.

She leaned forward, pressing her breasts into his appreciative face. “See, I told you this was a good idea,” she panted.

He licked a path over her proffered flesh, drawing from her a breathy laugh. “Aye, but now I have to go to work,” he groaned around her nipple.

Taala untangled herself from him with a laugh, lazily rolling off the bed. “And now there’s some joy in the morning for you to work from.” She flashed him a smile as she retrieved yesterday’s clothes from their discarded place on the floor, wriggling into her trousers and cropped vest on with ease, stuffing her breast band and smalls in a pocket. “Find me tonight, if you’d like.”

He nodded as she left and leaned back into the pillows with a sigh. It was easy with her—just sex, and a lot of it. Andraste’s tits, he didn’t even know where she was from, other than she had a vaguely Ferelden accent like much of the citizens of Skyhold.

The thought prickled at his honor. Perhaps he was fickle, indeed. He had lashed out at Sera for suggesting a new partner, and then he finds himself in bed with Taala for two days… He owed Fuzzyhead an apology.

Blackwall got out of bed again, gathering his supplies for a quick trip to the public bath house in the extensive basement. He had to meet Elara, and though they would have their companions with them, he knew it wouldn’t be pleasant.

* * *

“I appreciate the concern, but I know you’ll be able to carry on without me, and—”

The words struck him like a lash as he pushed open the heavy door to the war room, apparently the first of their comrades to arrive. Josephine, Leliana, and Cullen stood in stony silence as Elara gestured with her hand, back to the door, her words cutting off as he entered the room.

An icy shiver ran down his spine. He didn’t care for the gravity of the thought, of ‘carrying on without her,’ as she so casually put it. Something was wrong; he couldn’t see it right away, but he could feel it.

“Warden Blackwall, welcome,” Josephine said cordially, nearly shaking with thinly-veiled frustration. “Perhaps you could—”

“Ambassador, please. Not now.”

A strained glance passed between Josephine and Elara at the soft words and the ambassador eventually caved, turning to study the map with sharp eyes and pursed lips. Her pen scratched at the parchment on her note board as she worked, taking notes on whatever she saw there. On the other side of the massive table, Cullen sidled closer to Elara but she brushed him off with a stiff wave. Blackwall watched the scene unfold, no doubt prompted by some important news.

“If you’ll excuse me for a moment, friends.” Josephine strode purposefully toward his place near the door and, stumbling slightly, dropped her note board with a clatter.

Thom instinctively bent to retrieve the scattered papers, joining the ambassador at the floor. She pressed a short note into his hand. “Later,” she hissed before rising. “Ah, thank you. My apologies, Warden Blackwall.”

“You’re welcome, my lady,” he answered dutifully, hiding the note in his palm until he could deposit it in his pocket. His stomach sank further at the subterfuge.

What was going on?

One by one their companions filtered into the room, filling the space with measured chatter. He took his place against the wall as was his custom, preferring to watch the others. Sera joined him and pushed playfully at his shoulder.

“Didn’t see you at the tavern last night, Beardy. Wanted to apologize for me being a right tit Moonsday night, back at dinner. Should’ve respected your feelings and all.”

He grunted noncommittally, not quite listening to her words, keeping his eye on Elara as the others joined them. Something about her face…

“Thank you for coming so swiftly, friends,” she said as the last of them entered the room. “I’ll make this brief, as many of us have important work to return to—there has been reported darkspawn activity along the Storm Coast, as well as Red Templars. Sister Nightingale’s network suggest a smuggling operation, based on what they’ve observed. We can likely expect other Venatori agents in the area as well.”

“When do we leave?” Iron Bull asked, cracking the knuckles in his massive fists..

“As soon as we supply; hopefully tomorrow, but if not, by Firesday. It’s a nine-day trip on horseback in the best of conditions, but I’ve heard the weather through Crestwood is not easy this time of year, so I expect delays.” She bent to the massive table, no doubt tracing her proposed route through Ferelden. “If we find the Venatori and their Red Templars, we must crush them and any red lyrium deposits. We cannot let a threat to the Coast or the Highever Teyrnir stand.”

“A small regiment of soldiers will be shipping out to hold the Coast, in case their friends come back.” Cullen’s voice was firm, his hands on the pommel of his sword. “They will likely arrive a day or two after you, but we’ve already contacted the camps in the area to engage if needed.”

Leliana frowned as she addressed the council. “On top of all this, a lightning dragon has been harrying our work in the region and, for our forces to move over the Waking Sea, we’ll need to remove it.”

Bull’s triumphant shout nearly drowned out her words, earning groans and rolled eyes from many of their assembled companions. “Oh yeah! I’m definitely coming with you, boss.” Blackwall could see the light in his eye from across the room.

Elara gave a small smile. “Of course, Bull. I wouldn’t keep you from your dragons.” She sobered before addressing them again, but Thom’s mind wandered.

The Storm Coast. It had been three, almost four years since he had seen that craggy coastline, since… He shied away from the memory, still painful after time passed. Thom shook his head, recalling the rain and unavoidable damp from when he was another man.

He had to come on this excursion.

He studied Elara’s face again, something drawing his eyes. “What’s different about Elara, Fuzz?” he whispered over his shoulder.

“You mean you—oi, that’s a right shiner of a bite on your neck.” He glanced down at her to meet her furrowed brow. “Quizzybits didn’t give that to you, did she.”

“That’s not the mystery here. There’s something different about her, but I can’t see it.” Despite his words his hand rose to the collar of his tunic, fussing with the laces to draw it closer about his neck.

Sera gave a strangled groan. “She cut her hair, you friggin’ tosser. You’re about to ruin something beautiful with… whatever _this_ is,” she hissed, gesturing to his throat. She stalked away, quietly leaving him against the wall.

That’s what it was—he saw it now, Elara’s hair gathered in a short tail, different from her usual braided style. Hadn’t it swept past her arse just two days ago? Blackwall wasn’t sure of its length now but the change was dramatic, for all that he couldn’t see it before. The cut turned her waves to lazy curls, tendrils springing from the tie she had reigned it into. She pawed at her hair as she spoke, asking questions and making plans.

_Why did she do it?_

“That’s what we have so far. I’ll be finalizing the away team tonight, so that we can continue in our projects here uninterrupted, and will meet with those who will be going this evening to plan. If you have further input, I’m open to it. Thank you.”

As slowly as they arrived, the war council dispersed at her dismissal. Blackwall lingered at the wall and watched their companions leave.

“I…” Thom trailed off before recollecting his thoughts. “I would like to go with you, Inquisitor. I believe I know of some of the Deep Roads access points in the area, if not all of them.”

She nodded, her eyes roving over the map of the Storm Coast that had been overlaid onto the table. “Of course, Warden Blackwall. We will need your expertise on the matter, and you are a skilled swordsman. I would be foolish not to have you with the party.”

He could feel the distance between them, a gaping chasm growing wider with every strained interaction, with the formality of leaning on their titles. _It is as it should be,_ a dark voice whispered to him, even as the false certainty of her voice worried him. Thom stepped closer, studying the map alongside her. “Do you know who else you might take with you?”

Elara groaned, pushing an errant curl from her face, her fingers unwittingly tracing the path his own had briefly wandered not so long ago. “I haven’t decided, but there’s not much choice. Solas and Vivienne are working on projects here, so that leaves Dorian as our most capable mage. Iron Bull, to help with the dragon. You. Not much wiggle room, if I want to keep the party small. Perhaps Varric, or Sera, but she hates the cold.”

“And he hates the outdoors, so it’s a wash either way. Cole might be the better of the three.”

She flashed a wan smile. “However it stacks up, we have multiple targets out there, and must be ready and well-matched.

He nodded. She had always been a thoughtful strategist, knowing well the strengths and weaknesses of her team. Thom could see why she had been chosen as Lavellan’s Knight. “I’m sure you’ll make the right decision,” he said, hearing the admiration color his voice.

Thom turned to leave but found her hand at his sleeve, fingers clenching in the loose fabric. His eyes rose from her hand to her face, his brow furrowed at her sudden contact.

“Thank you, Thom.” Her words held a gentleness to them, at odds with her formal behavior just moments before. “I—” Elara’s eyes wandered his face before stopping on his throat, exposed once more by her pressure on his shirtsleeve. Her eyes hardened and she stepped away.

“Thank you for your assistance and the use of your fur while I was unwell,” she said stiffly, turning from him. “I meant to return it earlier, and will have it sent to your chambers in the keep, unless you prefer for its return to the barn.”

He fought the urge to cover the mark, a heated flush building beneath his beard. “The keep, if you will. At your convenience, Inquisitor.” Whatever softness swelled within her had fled now, supplanted by her distaste.

 _There’s always Ferelden,_ he told himself without conviction as he exited the war room.

Outside the door he paused, taking out the hastily written note the ambassador had passed to him. “ _She plans to board a ship in Highever to Wycome. You must urge her against this decision, Ser Blackwall. We cannot lose her, and I fear we will if she proceeds. Please, Ser, help her to see reason.”_

Blackwall balled his fists and moved to Josephine’s office. “What do you mean?” he asked without preamble as he strode to her desk, the note trembling in his hand.

“You read the note? You must convince her to see reason. She cannot go to Wycome. What if she is hurt, or does not return? Inquisitor Lavellan is far too important to lose, but she insists that she must go!”

The anxiety rode high in her voice, pulling at his heart. Josephine had proven herself to be an irreplaceable asset to Elara’s counsel, but it was no secret that the ambassador had advocated for the diplomatic approach to protecting her people outside of Wycome that had ultimately resulted in their deaths .

“Ambassador,” he said quietly, brow furrowed, “what do you expect me to do?”

“I, I do not know, truly.” She deflated under his gaze. “You and she are—were—close; I hoped she would listen to you, realize that she cannot go off without precautions and preparations.”

“Whatever we are now, it’s far from ‘close,’ my lady.” She slumped slightly in her chair at his words. “But I will help her, if I can. Keep her safe.”

Josephine nodded. “That is all we can do at this point. If she truly wished to disappear, I fear she could leave before we noticed, and be gone from us forever.” She sighed before drawing herself back together, the graceful ambassador he knew once more. “Thank you, Ser Blackwall.”

Sera laid in wait when he exited the Ambassador’s office, leading him away from the folks who gathered in the Great Hall for the midday meal.

“What’s this, then?” She paced, gesturing to his shoulder.

“It’s a distraction. I owe you the apology, Fuzzy. I shouldn’t have shouted at you the other night.”

She threw her hands up in exasperation. “What did you do, Beardy?” She eyed him with conflicted glee. “Then tell me _who_ did you do. I’m pissed but still want details.”

He rolled his eyes, leaning against the wall of the corridor, arms crossed over his chest. “You said I needed a distraction, and she might as well have fallen into my lap about it. The qunari woman from the tavern. Taala.”

“Leggy blonde?”

He grunted in affirmation.

Sera stopped her circling. “Good on ya. Wait, no, I’m supposed to be pissed!” She groaned. “You’re going to mess this up for everyone.”

“What exactly is it?” He had a sinking suspicion…

“You’re supposed to get with Quizzybits! I have money on this and now you’re just, ugh!”

And there it was.

He sighed, shaking his head. “One, don’t go betting on other people’s actions, not without letting them in on it first. Two, this isn’t right, Sera. You know that’s not how it is with us.”

She frowned at him. “Yeah, but it could be. I talked to her about you, about what happened. You… didn’t quite lie to me about what happened, but let me think something that wasn’t true.” She paused, gritting her teeth. “I don’t like that, Blackwall, not a bit. That’s not trust.”

Her words hit closer to home than he liked and he looked away, his hand fidgeting in the fabric of his sleeve. “I didn’t want you bothering her about it, I assume it’s still a sore subject.”

“It is, though. Really is.”

Her solemn tone brought his attention back to her as she resumed her pacing.

“I just, I spent the morning with her yesterday after she hacked off her hair like a loony. I even fixed it right up and it was great, and she was all in the buff, and Andraste’s wooly knickers is she pretty…”

She snorted, an exasperated smile crossing her face before she continued. “But anyway, we got to talking about you and—” Sera ran a hand through her choppy hair. “It really hurt her, you know. What you said. And then you were all gruff with me the other night when I said that stupid shite, telling you to go find a distraction. You didn’t tell me!”

“Sera—”

“I’m not done, Beardy!” She glowered at him, her hands gesturing wildly with her words. “I get to be mad at you because your keeping the truth from me hurt her. Made _me_ hurt her, even though that’s not what I meant. She loves you and is miserable about it. You love her and are miserable about it. Why are you two so friggin’ hard up about it?”

A runner passed them, interrupting her rant for a moment before she started in again. He hoped she remembered to breathe.

“It’s obvious to everyone around. You’ve got to let people in and close to you to keep from hurting them, that’s just how it goes or something.” Her lips twisted into a scowl as she stared at him, mimicking his stance with her arms crossed over her chest. “Well?”

Blackwall shrugged, the clenching of his jaw sending pinpricks of pain through his head. “That’s… probably not going to be how it works out, so you best try to cash out on that bet.”

“Because you’ve got a new lady love?”

“Because I don’t want to hurt her.” The words echoed through the otherwise empty corridor and he took a centering breath, eyes closed against her vexation.”There’s, there’s a lot to think about, between her and I. A lot in the way, and none of it good. She deserves better.”

Sera groaned. “There’s really no helping you, is there, Beardy? You and your… I dunno what anymore.” She pinned him with a glare. “You don’t get to decide what she deserves, y’know, but you both should be happy.” With a shake of her head she left, muttering under her breath.

* * *

Her hands shook as she read the report for the third time without taking in the information. With a groan Elara dropped the page to the desk, watching it flutter and fall. Shame and guilt roiled like a storm in her belly, as they had for days.

She could still see his surprised expression from earlier that morning in the war room, a cautious light that flashed in Thom’s eyes when she grabbed his arm. The words she had searched for—of gratitude, of apology, anything to bridge the insufferable distance between them—had stuck in her throat at the meager contact, finding her as unguarded as he in that moment.  

That was, until she saw the love bite on his throat.

“It doesn’t matter,” she muttered, holding her head in her hands. The bruise had been fresh, by her quick glance, but Sera’s words echoed in her mind.

_“He loves you to pieces, it’s right there. He’s not quite right anymore.”_

She sighed into her palms.

A petty, hurt part of her didn’t want to take him on this mission, though she knew that to be both a foolish and dangerous whim. They worked well together, having spent many sweaty hours in the sparring circle before Haven’s destruction. Their mutual fighting prowess showed in their tactical successes, the battles won and survived. He was strong and wise, attentive but focused on the field, and she would trust him at her back any day.

“And what does it matter, if he has a lover? I nearly…” She blanched at the memory of pressing herself to Cullen, of the wanton lust that had burned in her bones at the idea of slaking her wine-strengthened loneliness. _“Fenedhis,_ that was beyond out of line, that was—”

His golden eyes flashed through her mind, blown wide with lust. She could still feel the weight of his hand against her back, his breath ragged against her lips, the way he crushed her hair in his fist. Her skin still burned under the exploration of his hands.

A shiver tripped over her spine at the sensation. She knew exactly what  _that_ was.

_Focus, Elara._

She pulled the top desk drawer open, retrieving from its depths the leatherbound journal Varric had given her two days before. The book’s straight spine flexed as she opened the soft cover and ran her fingertips over the first page, brushing aside the ribbon place-marker carefully glued to the binding. 

Her eyes fell to the inscription on the inside cover, words in a casual, blocky script that brought to mind the dwarf’s warm, wide smile.

> _Property of Ironbark Lavellan, Most Noble Inquisitor of the Inquisition._
> 
> _Here’s to rewriting shitty memories into fonder stories._
> 
> _—V. Tethras_

She snorted. “Not everyone is as talented a storyteller as you, Varric.” 

Methodically she dipped a nearby quill into her ink pot, ignoring the tremble of her hand as she carried the precious liquid to the blank page.

> _6 Harvestmere, 9:41 Dragon  
>  _ Durgenvunin
> 
> _Everything I touch turns to death and decay. Perhaps Lethanavir is punishing me for having left my home? Would He do such a thing? The gods are unknowable in their ways, Deshanna once told me. I should know better than to doubt, but I fear for what I have done, both in action and inaction. Maybe this all is punishment for what I've allowed in my absence._
> 
> _I must not forget. As much as I want to forget, I can't. Lethanavir showed me my vow once more in the Fade, and I know I have not lived up to it. I must record these feelings so that I never forget this pain. May I always be shamed for what I have allowed._
> 
> _My eight months with the_ shem’len _Inquisition has brought pain and death wherever I go. Even in the Free Marches, far from the influence of this organization, my trust in the organization and in the diplomacy of shems resulted in slaughter. I am a Knight! I should have known better. I should have sent swords and staves against those bandits. They are my family, my people, and I failed them. I should have sent myself._
> 
> _I should have died along with them._
> 
> _My oath urges me to go back, to wander the forests of the Marches one last time before fulfilling my duty to Lavellan, to perform the burial rites a final time before joining them. It might be right. Who’s to say that the_ shems _won’t find another way? They’ve been tromping through their problems for millennia, they will find a way. Solas knows more about the Fade and the rifts than anyone in Thedas, most likely. He is a highly talented and skilled Rift mage—I’m sure he could figure out how to fix things._

She hesitated as she dipped the quill once more, the ink dripping from the nib.

> _The past months have been… a special pocket of the Void for us. We are settling into Skyhold, easier said than done with all the repairs and supply chains needing figured out. Hawke and her friend Stroud have been scouting the Western Approach, and we await word. Josephine is adamant that she can manage invitations to the Empress’s ball in Halamshiral and has already started the dress fittings for our appearance. My family… I can’t even bring myself to speak of it. ~~Thom~~ _

Elara scribbled out his name.

> _I let myself become distracted by Warden Blackwall’s friendship, and have harmed my relationship with Commander Rutherford, as well as my other advisers. I know I must take caution not to do so again, to build those bridges again. I must put distance between us all, for the good of the Inquisition. I just wish... I wish for many things, all unproductive and impossible. It would be best to forget these wishes and focus._
> 
> _I find myself in unfamiliar territory, and I am… afraid. Of everything. Of making the wrong decision and putting more people in jeopardy. Of even more power being thrust upon me. Of not living up to the_ shems’ _expectations, or my own._ _I am afraid, now even more so than when I cowered at Corypheus’s feet._
> 
> _We set for the Storm Coast tomorrow, if at all possible. I still need to gather my team, but I will be accompanied by the Iron Bull, Dorian Pavus, and… Warden Blackwall. I do not look forward to the awkward closeness such travel will produce, but I must think of the greater good of the Inquisition, not myself. I can’t think to outright avoid him any longer. I am a woman grown, 36 years old next month. I have known love, and loss, and life, and death. I must not act like a child burnt by their first brush of love._
> 
> _It doesn’t matter. I have a job to do. Clear up the Coast. Put out the damned fires across Ferelden. Save Orlais from itself. Figure out what is happening with the Wardens. Try not to be killed for the heresy thrust upon me by these people. The sooner we get these done, the sooner I can return to my people's lands._
> 
> _If I wish for one thing, it is that I weren't the bearer of the Anchor. May June cleave it from my arm and use it for His works, I'm sure He could craft many fine weapons with this power._
> 
> _The docks of Highever call to me, and I am weak. They are so close to the Coast, just a few days' ride from the central camp. I can easily rent a berth and be on a ship toward Wycome in days after clearing up our business along the coast. I had suggested it to my advisers; everyone disagreed on that action. They don’t understand._
> 
> _I may be their Inquisitor by chance, but I was born Elvhen first: my duty is to my people._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Three Elvhen Translations, from [FenxShiral's](http://archiveofourown.org/users/FenxShiral/pseuds/FenxShiral) ["Project Elvhen: An Elvhen Lexicon"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3719848).
> 
>   * Fenedhis: a common curse word. While the literal translation would essentially be "Wolf Cock" the use as a curse word in the language is similar to "Shit," "Fuck," or "God Damn"
> 

> 
> Calendar Notes:
> 
>   * Moonsday: Thedosian Monday, named for the moon.
>   * Durgenvunin: Stoneday, the Elvish equivalent to the Common "Wardensday," Thedosian Wednesday/
> 

> 
> Comments and kudos are always appreciated! Thank you for reading!
> 
> You can find me on my tumblr if you'd like! [Ocean-in-my-Rebel-Soul](ocean-in-my-rebel-soul.tumblr.com)


	4. Chapter 4

“Nice hit!”

Blackwall grunted, the vibrations from his sword’s blow ricocheting up his arm from where he connected. He eyed Iron Bull contemplatively, his gaze pulled by the man’s massive war axe. “Can’t compare to that beast,” he muttered, raising his shield in challenge, “but I try.”

Bull laughed, the late afternoon sun gleaming on the buckles of his scant armor as he hefted the axe. “You’re surprisingly sturdy for a human,” he said with a grin. “I like that about you.”

“Aye?” Blackwall spun away from the swing of the axe and harried Bull’s open side, not close enough to snake his sword into a solid hit but enough to try to through the other man off his balance. Bull saw it coming and rotated, bringing the haft of his weapon up to block his access.

“I have to just out-power you to bring you down, otherwise you’ll keep up for hours.” Bull blocked an incoming strike, sending Blackwall’s sword skittering across the curved blade. “It’s a handy skill.”

Blackwall shifted, circling his sparring partner. They had been at it for almost an hour now, both sweat-drenched and sore from trading blows. The practice shield in his hand had gained new dents from their match, marks he bore with pride. He knew few others who would ask the Iron Bull to spar, and fewer still who could keep up with the massive man.

Bull overextended his attack, leaving his left side open. With a lunge Blackwall struck, muscle memory still sharp as his arm flicked out, bringing his blunt edge hard against Bull’s ribcage. The qunari swore, Trade mixed with foreign Qunlat falling effortlessly from his tongue as he brought his hand to the offending welt.

“Lucky for me that’s a practice sword,” he laughed between panting breaths, planting the axe head on the ground to lean against its haft. “What do you think of going against that dragon on the coast?”

Blackwall grimaced. “I’m not looking forward to getting hit by lightning in all my armor.”

“But it’s the _thrill_ of it, Blackwall. The excitement, your heart pounding in your chest when they look at you, the raw power in their bodies—”

“Sounds like you’re not talking about a dragon anymore.”

Bull guffawed at the joke, hefting his axe once more. “It gets blurry, let’s say that,” he said with a wink, which worked surprisingly well for a man with one eye. He slapped his hand against the axe head. “Again.”

They circled each other warily, testing the other’s defenses easily with feinted jabs and quick pushes. Blackwall saw an opening in Bull’s guarded stance that shifted too quickly; Bull swifty blocked the attack, his axe coming down on his shield to knock him to his back. The breath rushed out of him in a pained gasp and he saw stars from behind the visor of his helm.

“You okay?” Bull stood at his side and offered his hand, his brow drawn with concern.

Blackwall took the offered hand, the other man’s strength easily bringing him to his feet. “Aye, just winded and bruised my pride.” He cast an admiring glance to his sparring partner. “Seems you got me on my back after all.”

A wide smile broke across Bull’s face and he shrugged. “Gotta know your opponent’s strengths to figure out their weaknesses,” he said. His attention flicked to something over Blackwall’s shoulder. “Looks like the boss is on her way.”

He turned to follow Bull’s gaze and found Elara walking the training yard, her appraising eye on the nearby soldiers as they worked. It seemed that Commander Cullen also saw her, as he not-so-surreptitiously made his way to her from where he worked in with the recruits.

His stomach turned. Cullen had the look of a lovesick fool _—_ and he would know, he’d worn it all too often in her presence, himself.

They were close enough to the sparring ring that he could see Elara’s face as the commander approached, the way she tensed when Cullen reached for her, close enough that he could hear their hushed words. His fingers caught her wrist, an otherwise innocuous warrior’s grip he’d seen both of them fall into, but she pulled back; he could see the unease written in the lines of her body.

“I have to go, Commander,” she muttered, pulling her arm from the man’s grip. The words were loud enough that Blackwall could hear them from the sparring ring, carried on the slight breeze of the afternoon. “We’ll talk about this later.”

“Before you leave, Elara? Or must I wait until you return from the coast?” He couldn’t see the commander’s face now but Blackwall heard the frustration in his tone.

He looked away, sheathing his sword with deliberate care. Their business wasn’t any of his.

“Looks like someone’s not happy,” Bull murmured at his side. “Lovers’ spat, you think?”

He eyed Bull suspiciously, who only rubbed his chin before speaking again.

“More than half of the keep wants to be in either of their beds, it’s no surprise they would be in each other’s. Both are so tense they could use it.”

Blackwall grunted. He was _not_ thinking of that. “Don’t you have other things to do than contemplate the sex lives of those around you?”

“Not ‘til we reach the coast, my friend.”

He groaned.

“Captain Iron Bull, Warden Blackwall.” Elara stood stiffly outside the fence of the sparring ring, her blue jacket pulled tight to ward off the chill of eventide. “How soon can you be ready to move out?”

“As soon as needed, my lady,” Blackwall replied. Her eyes twitched at his words, some shadow stealing across her face before she nodded.

“I want to head out tomorrow morning, after breakfast. Since we won’t be bringing much more than ourselves, we can leave as soon as we’re individually supplied and picked up our camp gear. I’ve already told Lord Pavus.”

 _Captain, Warden, Lord._ Blackwall grunted to himself and coughed to cover the noise when Elara brought her sharp, unimpressed gaze upon him. He could see the chasm between them grow wider. She was being formal again, in a way he recalled from early in his tenure with the organization; her walls had been built on that formality, on the strength of titles and given names, and they had been slow to tear down. Brick by brick she had opened to him, to their companions, forming tentative friendships beyond their alliances of convenience.

To hear it again—and not just addressed to him—was a punch to the gut.

“Sure thing, boss.” He nodded to Bull’s words, and the Inquisitor looked away.

With a nod Inquisitor Lavellan left, embodying her title if not her name: dispassionate, stoic, silent and strong.

“Was that weird to you, too, or just me?”

Blackwall grunted. “It’s all fucking weird,” he replied, unbelting his borrowed sword belt and tossing it to the weapons rack, followed quickly by the practice shield. He ran an agitated hand through his hair.

“You okay?”

He snorted. “I just need to finish packing. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Blackwall didn’t wait for Bull’s reply before returning to his room in the keep.

A soft package waited by his door, wrapped in a cotton sheet. He tossed it to the bed as he entered the room, knowing what it contained. Blackwall leaned against the bureau as he stared at it, willing himself to cross the distance and unwrap the item.

He finished his packing instead, losing himself in the routine. Trousers. Tunics. Snares. His favored hunting knife and a small sewing kit. Bathing supplies. A folded square of waxed canvas. Every item fit efficiently into his travel bag, carefully selected from his already small set of personal effects.  It stood only partially full, holding the essentials needed for the weeks-long trip with room for whatever additional items were picked up along the road.

Blackwall stilled as he considered the bag. A heavy doubt weaseled into his chest and he added more to his pack, burying a leather coin pouch in a hidden interior pocket. Another layer of supplies was set into the pack before he added his bedroll and strapped the whole mess together with the belts of the travel bag. With careful practicality, the bag could provide for almost two months of travel.

He had to be prepared for whatever happened. Blackwall considered Josephine’s earlier worries about Elara’s proposal. “She wouldn’t just leave, she’s better than that,” he scoffed. The thought didn’t comfort him as much as he hoped, and his growing suspicion nagged at him.  

 _“You’ll be able to carry on without me.”_ Elara’s words from the morning meeting haunted him, even despite not being meant for his ears.

A knock sounded at the door and, distracted, he strolled across the room to open it. Taala swept into the room with a cheeky grin and a wine bottle.

“My projects at the forge were finished early, so the foreman let me go early. Hoped we might spend some time—oh.” Her words and smile faltered as she saw his packed travel bag. “I heard Her Worship was leaving, does this mean you’re joining her?” She planted herself on the bed, nudging the bag with her hip as she settled.

He grunted his confirmation. “We’ll be gone most of a month, perhaps longer.” Blackwall watched her fingers trail over the neck of the bottle, their idle movements belying some inner tension.

Taala sighed before smiling at him again. “But you don’t leave until tomorrow, so you have some time.” She held the bottle out between them. “Would you like some company?”

Blackwall ran a hand through his hair before moving to the bed, taking the bag and setting it on the floor by the door.

“What’s this?”

He turned, heart in his throat as he found her unwrapping the soft package that had been waiting for him, revealing the bear fur blanket he had left with Elara two days before. A small note fluttered from its folds and she caught it, reading it aloud.

“‘The Inquisitor thanks you for your kindness. Sincerely, Malia, personal steward to Inquisitor Lavellan.’ Huh, fancy.” Taala snorted before tossing the note and blanket aside. The bed cleared, she grinned and motioned for him to join her.

“I,” he fought for the words, “I still need to pack, actually. Won’t have much time for fun before we head out in the morning. I’m sorry, Taala, but you should go.”

She frowned slightly before getting up. “I suppose that means more wine for me, then.” Taala met him at the door and gave him a soft smile. “I hope the trip goes well.” Her hand rose to cup his cheek for a moment, brushing her thumb over his lower lip before she left. “Come home safe,” she called over her shoulder.

Blackwall closed the door with a sign and set to finish readying for the trip, polishing armor and sharpening his sword as the evening fell. It was a familiar routine: taking the evening meal in his room, bathing, the sundry little tasks performed like ritual the final night in the keep before an excursion with the Inquisitor and their companions. It usually kept him grounded, calmed his nerves before such trips, but tonight his mind wandered.

He readied for bed and slid between the sheets, the crumpled linens smooth on his bare skin. Blackwall struggled for the calm he normally felt on these nights. His hand drifted over the side of the bed to retrieve the bear fur blanket from its discarded position on the floor. As he inhaled the familiar scents of hay and woodsmoke, his heart lurched to find the new notes of Elara’s vanilla and smoke scented bath oils lingering in the dense fur.

Blackwall turned to his side and hated himself more when he clutched it to his chest, their mingled scents and his loathing carrying him to an uneasy sleep.  

\----

Elara stood on her balcony to watch the moon rise, its full face softly dwindling in the night sky over the mountains. The stars had grown familiar here, after the long months away from her home. Humans held different names for the constellations of her people—rather than the bow and arrow they had seen a boat, and instead of June’s anvil and hammer they found a warrior with his greataxe. She traced the constellations with her fingers as if to pull the starlight to her by will alone.

A knock sounded at the inner door to her suite. “Come in,” she called from the balcony, not turning from the sky. Heavy footsteps heralded her visitor as they came up the stair and into the large room.

“Where are—ah.” She heard him moving through the room, his steps quiet, measured, as he reached her.  

“You’re not Malia,” Elara observed as she faced him.

“That I am not,” Cullen agreed, joining her at the balustrade to look out over the mountains. “No one saw you at dinner so I brought you a tray.” They stood in silence, watching the moon soar overhead as the winds pushed delicate clouds across the sky.

“We were all worried,” he said quietly. “Cassandra had gone to see you Moonsday morning, after…” He cleared his throat. “She had heard about what happened and went to see you when you didn’t come for breakfast. She found your balcony open, part of your furniture destroyed, and when she came running down the stairs I— _we_ —prepared for the worst. Ser Blackwall,” Cullen’s face tightened with a slight grimace, “had the welcome news that you were well.”

“Commander...”

“‘Cullen,’” he suggested with a smile. “Must there be such formality between us, this distance?” He turned to her, his face softly lit by the moonlight. “I hope that there doesn’t have to be, at least not in this moment.”

She nodded slowly. “Cullen.” His name came out breathier than she intended, more of a sigh than a proper word. She shook her head and looked away from his soulful gaze. “I must apologize for my actions last night, it was a mistake and highly inappropriate.”

“It wasn’t, for me.” He reached for her, brushing his gloved fingers across the fabric of her sleeve. “I’ve wanted to kiss you for months. I… I hope it’s a mutual feeling and not a regretful decision made under the influence of the wine, as I had feared.”

“I wanted to. I shouldn’t have, but I wanted to. There’s so much going on, I can’t let myself get distracted again.” The admission fell from her tongue without her permission.  

Cullen laughed, the deep sound rumbling into her chest. “Maker, Elara.” He raised his hand to graze her cheek, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “You can be free here, with me. You don’t have to pull away.”

She should have protested, should have drawn a firm line in the sand between them, kept their relationship professional, but instead she found herself leaning into his touch. Elara watched with wide eyes as he slowly closed the distance between them, his other hand lifting to her hair as she tilted her head back, keeping his gaze.

“May I kiss you?”

She nodded, not trusting her voice.

He bent his head to lightly brush his lips over hers, once, twice, before she kissed him with growing fervor. Oakmoss and elderflowers filled her senses, soft and sharp all the same in the night air. Her hands found the collar of his mantle and clutched at the fur as his tongue swept over the seam of her lips, swiftly dancing with hers when she opened to him.

Cullen groaned, the sound captured between their open mouths. The fingers of one hand tangled in her hair while the other cupped her hip, drawing her against the cold steel of his armor.

A shiver of electricity shuddered over her skin and she gasped into his mouth.

He pulled back slightly, his face flushed. “Is everything all right?”

She nodded before considering, her mind racing. “Wait, Cullen, I—” She paused and looked away, worrying her lower lip with her teeth. “With everything going on,” _with everything I can’t tell you,_ she thought, “there’s no future here. I need you to know that.”

He tilted her face upwards, a slight frown creasing his brow. A shadow of something—hurt, perhaps?—softened his amber eyes before he spoke again. “If you want this—want me—I just want you.” Cullen stepped away from her, a hand rising to stroke nervously at his neck. “But I respect your need for distance. We both have our duties.”

Her heart stuttered at his words. She bit her lip before making her decision. “Would you like to go inside?”

Cullen chuckled and followed as she led them back into the bedroom, closing the door behind him. “Maker, you’re beautiful,” he murmured from the doorway. He crossed the distance between them and swept her into his arms, capturing her lips once more.

She moaned into his mouth and brought her hands to his shoulders. “Armor,” she murmured, fingers roaming through the fur ruff of his mantle. The look he pierced her with dripped heat down her spine, lust pooling in her belly as he divested himself of the offending garment. Elara watched with wide eyes as he unbuckled the straps and slowly working to rid himself of his armor pieces; she took the pieces and laid them on the sofa across the room, the metal glinting in the flickering firelight.

Cullen stood in his plainclothes when she turned back to him, backlit by the fire and awash in warm, golden hues. The sight made her mouth run dry with _want_. He smiled and even blushed under her examination as he rolled his shoulders, the motion flexing the delectable muscles of his chest under his tunic.

“Elara.” He reached out his hand.

Small steps brought her to him, hesitant at first but growing more confident by the time she found herself wrapped in the warm circle of his arms. Her hands roved down his back, nails raking lightly over his tunic. She pressed her ear to his shoulder, catching the satisfied rumble of his groan in his chest.

Elara slowly raised his tunic up over his torso, exposing the long lines of his ribcage to her hungry eyes before he helped her pull it over his head. Her fingers lingered along the ripples of scars over his chest, the tissue twisting over Cullen’s ribs and down toward his left hip. He sucked in a sharp breath as she traced around the old wounds.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, meeting his gaze. His jaw tightened and he let out a shuddering breath.

“Stories for another time, perhaps.” His lips met hers in a soft kiss, less demanding than before despite the hardness she could feel pressed against her belly. He was hot, nearly scorching her skin as his hands tucked themselves under the hem of her own shirt.

Together they removed her tunic, Cullen’s hands almost comically oversized for the small buttons that kept her wrapped away from his eyes. His lips skimmed over her skin as he brushed her leggings away. She moaned at the contact of his tongue along the ridges of her ribcage and the slight rounding of her stomach as he peeled the thin leathers from her legs.

His mouth ghosted over the lines of her tattoos, over the thick black swirls and silvered scars that decorated her skin. His thumb delicately tickled a band of raised tissue along her hip and he looked up to her.

“A hunt gone sideways,” she murmured, her hands dancing through his hair. “A story for another time, indeed.”

Cullen nodded at the words. He licked a wet stripe across her belly, coaxing a surprised giggle from her lips before he stood and swept her into his arms.

It was a short distance to where the bed lay waiting. He gently placed her at the edge with a smile. Cullen kicked off his breeches and knelt at the side of the bed between her knees, his hands roaming over the long lines of her legs. “I want to taste you.” He drew kisses along her shins, her thighs, moving forward as she parted for him. “I want to watch you come apart for me, bit by bit, under my mouth.”

She groaned and reclined against the bedspread, shifting at his direction. “ _Cullen._ ” His breath ghosted over her mound and she spread her thighs wider, letting him drape her legs over his shoulders. Elara threaded her fingers through his mussed curls and pulled, rolling her hips slowly before him.

He made her _wait,_ blowing cool air over her damp core before the first teasing stroke of his tongue along her slit, barely there at all. The tip of his tongue flitted over her folds, lapping delicately at her growing wetness before her hands fisted in his hair. “Cullen, I need--oh!”

A long, hard lick stroked over her cunt, passing from her entrance to the throbbing nub of her clit. She rocked into his mouth and he lapped at the bud of nerves, circling insistently as she groaned. “More,” she demanded breathlessly. His answering chuckle rumbled against her sensitive flesh.

His lips enclosed her clit and she almost came at the heat of his mouth before he started sucking and licking insistently. Her cunt clenched and she rolled her hips, grinding against him desperately..

“You’re so good, Elara, so good for me,” he murmured from between her legs, his words hot against her dripping slit. Cullen dragged the flat of his tongue over her folds once more before spearing her with it, dipping into her cunt with ease. His hands pulled her tightly against his face and he hungrily fucked her with his mouth as promised..

It took just a brush of his thumb over her clit before she came, crying out his name and rocking into his mouth. His lips and tongue ate at her as she broke apart, spasming around him. She couldn’t breathe for want of him, for the need that melted her. His tongue stroked over her as she came down, panting and gasping, Cullen gentling her through her pleasure.

She struggled for breath as her cunt clenched again in the aftershock of her orgasm. Cullen climbed up on the bed and they fell into each other’s arms, crawling over the blankets to stretch across the mattress.

“Andraste’s pyre,” he murmured as she lay draped over his chest. His mouth found her shoulder to press lazy kisses there.  

“Cullen.” She felt his cock twitch against her thigh at his name on her lips. A flush burned over her face and ears. “I’ve--I’ve never been with a human.” She rubbed her cheek against his temple to hide from the words.

Her admission hung in the air between them, tremulous and tender. “Elara. I…” She could see him blush in the low light. “Maker’s breath, I didn’t even think of that.”

She leaned down to lick into his mouth, tasting herself on his tongue. “I want you, Cullen.”

“I hope to spend all night hearing you say that,” he whispered against her skin, dipping his head to lay kisses along her jaw and throat. He nuzzled her neck as he dipped a hand between her thighs, fingers roaming over her slick flesh.

Cullen pressed forward at her groan, drawing it out into the long night.

\---

Morning always came far too soon for his liking. Sunlight pressed on Blackwall’s eyelids through the opening of his window. His grumbled curse echoed in the silent room at the unwelcome intrusion. He rolled to his side and smothered his face in the bear fur blanket, his body stiffening at the lingering notes of Elara’s perfumed oils.

She had to have slept naked and wrapped in his fur for it to have picked up her scent. The fascinating thought did nothing to allay the hardening of his cock. His hand drifted down to sleepily brush against his erection, wrapping around his hardness. Blackwall groaned at the contact. What would it be like to feel her hand on him, stroking over his cock? To feel her pressed into his arms, needy and wanting?

He shook his head at the images his thoughts conjured up--her skin revealed to him, her hair in riotous curls against pillows, or blankets, or the floor, face flushed with pleasure. His hand stilled. It was wrong to think of her in this context, he was sure; she was not to be fodder for such thoughts. Some level of the Void would wait for him, indeed.

Blackwall groaned and thought of anything else--cold waterfalls, getting caught by Red Templars without his sword, his ongoing verbal snipes with _Lord_ Dorian Pavus. He rolled out of bed and pulled on his traveling clothes, dressing more by rote than with intentional thought. Ignoring the remaining tightness of his body, he stuffed the fur into his traveling bag and hauled it to the stables before finding the morning meal.

There was always a certain buzz on the day the Inquisitor left. Skyhold took a great gasp as if holding its breath in her absence. An army marches on its stomach, he had heard once, and on these mornings the kitchen staff turned out big, hearty meals that were well appreciated by the traveling group, the last hurrah before weeks of hunting and camp meals. The hall would soon fill with the growing citizenry of Skyhold and the surrounding military camp to give the expedition team last minute well-wishes before weeks of relative silence.

At least, it was silence for him on the occasions he stayed at the keep instead of joining on the mission.

He filled his plate with meat and vegetables and set in to enjoying the meal and the peace of the early morning, watching the sun cast fluttering light onto the carpeted floor through the brilliantly designed wall of stained glass behind the Inquisitor's throne.

“Long night, Blackwall?”

A familiar voice drew his attention as the Iron Bull entered the hall. The big man was all smiles, too bright and shiny in the morning for a man who literally lived in the tavern. Bull sat down across from him, the motion jostling the various plattered offerings between them.

“How are you always so bright eyed in the morning?” Blackwall asked, his voice rough as he poured himself a mug of strong black tea.

“It’s my influence, I’m afraid, trying to polish away his brutishness. Terribly hard work, but someone has to do it.” Dorian swept to the table in a flurry of robes and buckles. “Good morning, Iron Bull. Warden.”

Blackwall returned his flippant words with a particularly rude hand gesture learned during his time with the Orlesian army, one that needed no translation across languages.  

Bull laughed at their exchange. “Now boys, you’re both pretty, no need to go at each other this early in the morning—unless that’s on the menu for this morning, then by all means, go ahead.”

Dorian huffed at the lecherous tone and opened his mouth to reply but stilled, his attention swiftly caught elsewhere. “Well, that’s new. Look who’s found sneaking out of Elara’s chambers.”

Both he and Bull looked up, none too subtle in their glances, and found the commander slipping out from the door to the Inquisitor’s tower. There were still few people to be found in the hall, few pairs of eyes to witness his satisfied walk from her rooms.

“Called it,” Bull chuckled before turning back to his meal.

 _It doesn’t matter,_ Blackwall told himself, glaring daggers at his breakfast. He heard Dorian call out a pointed greeting and Cullen’s responding nervous laughter, the noise twisting like a knife in his back. Cullen was young and strong, bright and shiny and new, not lost to his demons the way Blackwall held his tight. He was—

“Come back to us, Blackwall,” Bull murmured quietly from across the table. “You’re gonna hurt yourself if that breaks.”

Blackwall found his hand clenched painfully around his ceramic mug and set it down with a tight sigh. Dorian turned back to the table and served himself, eyeing the offered meats with a satisfied grin.

“Varric owes me five sovereigns, and I’m going to make him pay me in honeyed dates,” he murmured in a singsong voice.

Blackwall groaned and drained his tea, trying to keep the glower from his face as he renewed his focus on his breakfast.

“What has the Warden so twisted?” Dorian asked in a mock-whisper, leaning over to Bull’s shoulder as if placing himself in Blackwall’s line of sight.

“She’s not a game to be played,” he grit out from between clenched teeth as he rose from his seat. “The Inquisitor is no horse to be bet upon. Her affections shouldn’t be tossed around for court gossip.”

“Blackwall,” Bull warned, his one eye narrowed slightly.

Dorian bared his teeth in a predatory grin and stood, the motion effortlessly communicating his disdain. “It seems the only person with the problem is you, Blackwall,” he said, “and you would be best served not to talk about playing with her feelings. After all, it was you who said it was a ‘mistake,’ was it not?”

 _“Dorian.”_ Bull pounded his hand on the table meaningfully and speared both of them with alternating scowls. “If this is how it’s going to be the whole trip, I’m going to take you both to the sparring ring and make sure you’re too exhausted to fight—and don’t think I won’t put you to work on the road, either.”

He shook his head and glared at Dorian anew, ignoring Bull’s well-meaning threats. “You sniping arseholes can keep your games to yourselves; you, and Sera, and Varric, you should all be ashamed to have bet on your friend like this, you fucking—”

“That’s _enough,_ Thom.”

The click of his teeth snapping shut at her words was audible in the otherwise quiet of the hall. He saw her in his peripheral vision, just beyond his line of sight, and closed his eyes. “My apologies, Ela—Inquisitor,” he spat, “that was unworthy of me to attack your _friend_.” He didn’t look at her as he strode from the table.

Ferelden. After this mess with the darkspawn he would go back. Back to the little cabin, back to the spirit of the nearby lake, back to the calming scent of sun-warmed elfroot. Back to his life before Elara had stumbled into it with her Maker-damned smiles and her fucking laugh. His feet took him to the stables and the little woodshop he had nestled into the barn.

The worst trouble he could run into in the Hinterlands would be a bear, and he could easily defend himself from those. He should replace his blanket, anyway. The damned thing smelled like impossible futures and untenable dreams. He should throw the blanket in the nearest fire and rid himself of it.

Rid himself of her.

His face burned with a shameful heat as he took up his tools, finding a nearby log and chipping his chisel into its yielding bark. Visions of griffin wings flew in the wood chips, secrets and should-have-beens fluttering to the ground with them. Blackwall cracked the log into sharp, jagged pieces, digging a deep gouge into the table below with his frustrated hammering. He snarled at the mess before sweeping the mess onto the ground, collapsing onto the bench with clenched fists.

“That log owe you money or something?”

Blackwall grit his teeth at the intruder’s voice. They weren’t likely to depart for another couple hours. That was, if he was still to accompany Her Worship on the excursion. She could just as easily find another strong swordarm; the keep was crawling with them these days.

“Did she send you to tell me I’m staying here? Or is she ordering me to leave?” Blackwall shot a glance over at the man. “Tell her I understand. I wish you all well.”

Bull moved from the doorway of the barn to lean against Blackwall’s work table, taking a discarded planer between massive fingers. “No, you martyr, but I would suggest keeping such outbursts to yourself while we’re out. I don’t want to see any of us get distracted out there, and I’d hate for her to have to turn on either of you to make you shut up.”

Blackwall snorted sourly. “On me, you mean. She and Dorian are thick as thieves, and harder to part than a mabari from a bone.”

“It used to be you two were the same.”

“Don’t,” Blackwall groaned. “Just, stop. I’m tired of people telling me what we were.”

He could feel Bull’s eye on him. The man’s easy observation threatened to pick him apart and shine the light on all his broken darkness, his Ben-Hassrath training evident in his quiet regard. It would be only a matter of time before his secrets were exposed if the man focused on him for too much longer; he knew it in his gut, the knowledge locked away in the same jail cell with his other sins.

Bull’s hand reached out to grip his shoulder, fingers pillowed in the quilting of his gambeson. He bent to peer his one eye into Blackwall’s face. “Today was inexcusable, you know that, Blackwall. If you’re trying to keep whatever relationship you have with her intact, you’re doing a shitty job of doing it.”

“Are you saying that as my friend or as her right hand man?” he grumbled, despite the truth in the words.

“Both,” Bull admitted with a short huff. “No one wants to see you go. Not even Dorian. I think he’d miss the training dummy he’s made of you; who else would keep that tongue sharp?”

The half-hearted joke fell flatly. Bull shifted and moved his hand. “You’re not gonna do anything stupid on me now, are you, Blackwall?” he asked, far more gently than he had any right to do.

“I’m not a child to be coddled, Bull, you can stop treating me like one.”

“You can stop acting like one anytime, buddy.” The words were pointed but without insult.

Blackwall scrubbed his hands over his face. “Andraste’s tits,” he sighed. “You’re right. I need to…” His words slid into a groan at all the things he should do, could do, _wanted_ to do. “Get my act together,” he said instead.

“Yeah.” Bull let the conversation lapse for a moment. “I think this is part of why breeding is arranged by the tamassrans back in Par Vollen,” he mused. “This ‘love and affection’ business… it’s messy. Not that I don’t mind a good mess now and then,” he chuckled, rubbing his hand over his jaw, “but this is so much more than that. Knots and leather are much easier to deal with than this.”

Blackwall groaned and hung his head in his hands. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand, but that’s accurate” he muttered through his fingers.

Footsteps fell over the cobblestones of Merchant’s Row, coming toward them. Blackwall looked up to see Dorian’s impending approach, his haughty face brilliantly lit in the morning light.

“Yeah, well…” Bull shifted on the bench before standing, dusting the sawdust from his trousers. “I think I’m beginning to see it differently now.”

Blackwall watched the man walk from the shadows of the barn to meet Dorian outside. The two men were far enough away that their words did not reach him; he muttered a short prayer of thanksgiving for that and watched Bull take Dorian’s traveling bag from the corner of his eye. He dropped his gaze to study his boots as their shared laughter rose in the morning air.

\---

It was another two hours after breakfast before they were finally ready to ride off toward the Storm Coast, the last letters of notice sent out by raven to the intermittent Inquisition camps and various inns along their route, and final bits of supplies packed into their saddlebags and personal traveling packs. The keep breathed a sigh as the staff readied for their departure.

Elara found herself pacing in her suite, wasting time before she needed to drag herself to the stables. Dorian had been insulted in the Great Hall when she all but demanded he apologize to the angry Warden, but it was the most prudent decision, one she tried rationalizing to herself as being focused on their battle dynamic; they were moving into dangerous territory and none of them could afford to be distracted by their personal feelings.

She snorted. “Seems everyone has those in abundance these days,” she muttered to herself in the empty room. Elara stood before the cold fireplace, willing the memory of its heat to warm her hands. She had long since stripped her massive bed of its bedclothes, face burning in shame and mortified desire as the night’s activities played out in her mind’s eye, the linens balled up in a crumpled mess at the bottom of the stairs.

There was really no reason to linger in her room other than to avoid her companions or perhaps the Commander’s lingering gaze, if he found some reason to meet her at the stables as she readied to depart. For the sake of the last shred of resolve she yet clung to, she hoped he would be too busy.

Elara took a last look over at the room, nerves running rampant in her belly. The Breach was sealed, and reports of newly opened rifts were coming further and further apart. Thedas was slowly stabilizing under their feet, under the might of their power.

Surely someone else - someone better suited for the politics of shem society - could pick up where she left off.

The thought ate at her as she buckled on her armor, each piece enveloping her in a distanced calm. Soon enough her sword hung confidently at her hip and her shield was strapped to her back. Armament complete, she took up her travel pack, its weight an anchor against the growing unease in her heart as she settled it over the curve of her shield.

For a moment she was drawn back to her home, months before, as she readied to leave for the Conclave in a similar fashion. Keeper Deshanna always said that life came full circle. The Keeper’s face played over her vision as she drew her cloak about her shoulders.

She grit her teeth and marched down to the stables. With any luck, it would be for the last time.


End file.
